


When Wolves So Will

by Frosted_King85



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:04:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 104,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4172199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frosted_King85/pseuds/Frosted_King85
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU that takes place before the Battle of the Blackwater. Cersei Lannister fears the eminent shadow of Stannis Baratheon, and her malice drives her to a desperate act, that will shake the plans of the lords of the realm, and change the course of the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Filial Furnishings

When Wolves so Will

Robb

 

_Are all men so false in the face of opportunity?_

The lord’s solar of the Crag was dank and gloomy, and around the unsteady oak table, the faces of his bannermen were drooped into grimly humorous masks, leering horrors rendered almost childish by the steady moans of the sunset breeze hitting the porous walls of the ruined castle.

“Your Grace, you must double the ransom!” was repeated for the second time by Lord Jonos Bracken.

“The leal don’t make demands of their sovereign, Bracken!” Was the expected return from the bristling Lord Blackwood.

As ever, the prickliest two of his newer bannermen were at odds, either outright verbally sparring, or more irritatingly, indirectly seeking to appeal to him by means of flattery and overdone humility.

He hated it here.

He hated the congenial disrespect that decorated the faces of the smallfolk, he hated the arrogant sneers of the captured nobility, and he hated that no matter how far he rode north or south, the shadow of Casterly Rock was always at his back, taunting him with its immovable presence.

_If only I could topple that mountain over onto Pyke, so both the Lannisters and the Greyjoys could have a final feast in the Drowned God’s Halls._

His wishful daydream was interrupted by the impact of Lord Bracken’s hammy fist hitting the beleaguered table, setting goblets to wiggling and parchment fluttering.

“You dare question my loyalty, you beak nosed bird dicker?!” The brown bushy eyebrows of the riverlord were pulled tight across his pinked, clammy forehead, his hairy nostrils flared in open agitation.

Only the slow, sonorous growl from Grey Wind, resting at Robb’s side kept the man’s fists atop the table, though his thick fingers flexed reflexively.

The Greatjon’s rumbling laugh was almost as bestial as Grey Wind, as when he almost languidly slapped his paw on the table, goblets toppled and papers were stained.

“He only doubts the wisdom of making demands of one such as our King Robb here, Horse lord”. He pointedly made sure to use his three fingered hand to right Bracken’s goblet, and refilled the wine lost. The eyes of the cowed riverlord flicked briefly to the mountain of fur upon which Robb rested his left hand, and then back to the hand that Jon Umber left on the table.

The tale of that confrontation was shared widely by the Umber Lord himself, and where the northmen found it fierce, the riverlords were more of a refined bunch apparently, and few looked upon Grey Wind as favorably.

_This wouldn’t do._

He raised his hand, and silence fell upon the muttering assembly, aside from the squires shuffling the parchments back into neat piles.

“My lords, though my lord Bracken may have erred in the way he chose to impart his council, he isn’t wrong in his thinking.” The feathered cloak of Lord Blackwood might’ve squawked if possible, but Robb continued, undaunted.

“The ironmen have decided to piss on a profitable alliance and instead, attacked the north. This is no secret. They’ve made for Moat Cailin, Deepwood Motte and the Rills. Theon Greyjoy, a man I once considered a friend was heard boasting of his intent to take Winterfell itself. But Ironmen aren’t horsemen, and he fell and broke his leg a day out from the Moat. “

The cruel sniggers and derisive smirks peppering the faces around the table might’ve once disquieted him, but he found himself a colder man these days.

_Winter is coming._

“Still.” His hand again and the curtain of silence fell.

“The riverlands and the north will need to be strengthened once we win this war. For the riverlands, that means Stonehedge rebuilt. That means Oldstones renewed, and that means Harrenhal torn down, and a more manageable seat erected, to serve the same purpose but at a lesser cost.”

The riverlords looked interested at the prospect of the changes, but the northmen looked bored, or worse, envious.

“For the north, that means a great many changes as well. The western shore must be strengthened, and that means that Deepwood Motte must become a castle in truth. No more wood and bailey constructs, but a true stone fort. The same for Bear Hall. Bear Den is what I plan for. I intend to settle and renew the seats of the west, and the old names restored. Towers, Greenwood, Amber, and Frost. Even Moat Cailin itself rebuilt or renewed.” All faces around the table bore smiles now, though they appeared more grimaces in the poor light.

“From this age forward, the north will be the power it once was. Glass gardens at every seat. And for that my lords, we need gold. Lots of it. And we need second sons, willing to take new names, or old if you will, alongside daughters of the riverlands. If this independent kingdom is to survive and prosper, we must be staid in our alliances.” This last bit was said nearly in a whisper worthy of Roose Bolton.

The ensuing outburst from Lord Karstark was anything but.

“You’d have us breed out the north with southron sentiments, Your Grace?! A sept in every castle north of the neck, alongside those glass gardens? You can’t mean it lad! Your lady mother is a good sort, but not every southron lass is as strong as she….” His rant died almost meekly at this point, Robb’s raised eyebrow a warning, and the Blackfish’s glower a threat.

“I will overlook the lad this once, Lord Karstark, but the questioning of the worth of my southern allies and relatives will not be.” Was the cool response.

“Master Glover, the rear of the army is an important position, is it not?” Was more courteously pressed.

Clearly flustered by the random angle of the conversation, Galbart Glover nevertheless was the picture of composure when he responded.

“It is, Your Grace” Robb saw Lord Karstarks face freeze when he saw the trap.

“Lord Karstark?” Silence never seemed so heavy.

“It will be maintained Your Grace”.

Robb took a brief second to rub Grey Wind between the ears, before giving Lord Karstark an acknowledging nod of the head.

“My lords, I’m not trying to bring the ways of the first men to the riverlands, nor the customs of the andals to the north. Should any desire to marry in a sept, the Sept of Snows is a place of beauty, second only to the Starry Sept. The weirwood will not be burned down, nor the seven built up. You will choose your gods, and the gods of your families.” He paused there, to let the sincerity settle the mood.

“But this kingdom will take strides to be strong, stronger than it’s ever been before, and when you stride some things are left behind in favor of new heights. Let us put that which is for tomorrow aside, and focus on today.” He squared his shoulders before he took the plunge.

“We need to return north, and oust the ironmen before they do too much damage. For that, I plan on leaving my Uncle Ser Brynden behind to oversee the war effort as Warden of the Southern Marches, at least until I can return. I’ll not take all my strength I swept south with, but half will ride back with me.” He saw both Lord Blackwood and Lord Bracken lean forward with denials on their minds, but his arm was already moving, closing his right hand into a gloved fist held chest high.

“That is all my lords.”

The nobility rose and left in a rather undignified shamble, likely too struck by the proposed changes to bother with decorum, some of the less piqued raising their goblets in silent salutes, before promptly draining them as they exited.

He felt depleted, like the rickety table cluttered with abandoned cups.

He arose, Grey Wind breaking his doze effortlessly as he simultaneously gained his four to Robb’s two.

The sharp intake of breath to his rear reminded Robb of the entanglements of politics, as Olyvar Frey anxiously started when Grey Wind padded by, his large silver head swinging near to the squires ribs. And while the Frey wasn’t blessed with the rangy form of his relative Hosteen, his sparseness didn’t take away from his height.

The gasps, sighs and anxious breathiness were better suited to Sansa and Jeyne Poole’s sewing sessions than a man who’d been to battle.

Who’d swung a flail and took a life.

Jon would’ve been preferable to this one. But he wasn’t here.

“Olvyvar, I’d have you see to the prompt packing up of any scrolls and missives. They can go to Galbart Glover on my word.” He held his gaze for a second to make the importance clear.

”We may have taken the Crag, but I’d not leave temptation before our meager hosts. Make sure it’s all accounted for and in Master Glover’s possession before we ride out tomorrow. As for tonight, I’d be alone in my chambers. ”

The older youth’s head was bobbing furiously by the time Robb finished outlying his plans.

“Of course, Your Grace. At once.”

 

                                                                                                               ********

 

The calling to mind of Sansa had weighed heavily on Robb, as he walked the dim, damp corridors of the ruined fort towards the chambers he’d taken for himself. The few servants the Westerlings were able to employ shrank back in abject fear, which was amusing by turn when they saw the massive wolf shadowing his footsteps.

_You’d think they were raised on stories of northmen flesheaters and wargs, rather than ironborn reavers and tear toothed lions. And yet, Sansa and Arya right now wait in the clawed hands of the toothsome Lannisters, while somewhere else, our father’s head lies rotting on a spike. They wait for rescue, they wait for a chance to be traded, but now I must turn back north, leaving them behind to fend off yet another dagger from the dark. Yet for the boys, I must go north. Mother will curse me, but a king must see to his kingdom first._

The familial musings had so taken hold of Robb that he wasn’t even aware that he’d made it to his temporary quarters, until the rough northern tones of one of the standing guards drew him out of his reverie.

“Yer Grace, forgiveness but there was an urgent message from the southron maester. He asks that you send for him as soon as possible.” The normally ruddy face of Offie was nearly alarmingly pale in the dark, and his fear was palpable.

”A rider in the night, detained Yer Grace”. The poor man was terrified of being the bearer of bad news, but Robb was too anxious himself to put him at ease.

“Then send for him man.” He bit out the words.

“Alyde and Grey Wind are protection enough, get about it!” The shouted command had the desired effect, the lanky watchman pelting off so quickly his heels kicked his own arse down the hall.

 _Bran use to run like that. Whenever Jon and I decided on some mischief, Bran would always try to keep pace, all legs and arms, moving in unison. Until the Lannisters threw him from a tower in his own home_.

His unconscious frown deepened.

“Alyde.” He said, back in control now as he opened the door to the drafty room.

“Hail a servant for a small jug of spiced, warm wine when one next passes. Any bad news is better taken fortified.” The beefy guardsman left behind quickly muttered his acquiescence.

“And some for yourself and Offie, after he returns with the maester”. The appreciation on his plain face was blinding, as was the shine of his blackened left eye, gifted to him in one of the recent battles fought here.

“Thank you, Yer Grace. An honor to serve”.

The door open, he stepped into the gloom to wait.

It didn’t take long.

 

                                                                                                                                   ********

 

The maester of the Crag was an old man, even by the standards of those who serve. His slow gait was clearly pained, and yet, he held his head with a sort of pride that looked out of place on a man bechained.

_He looked to have a good twenty years on Maester Luwin, and that man was no one’s memory of an early summer._

The young man who followed him in however, was present in all of Robb’s memories, from the earliest to the last of his complete family, still safe and whole at the time.

“Jon!” Was all Robb say as he pulled his brother into his arms and exuberantly pounded his back.

The guards outside the open doorway gawped at the nearly childish squeal their king emitted without shame. The heavy weight of the crown was lost as he tipped his head back as he lifted his best friend into the air, clear off the ground.

The maester stooped to grab it, but Robb was too happy to wave a hand in his general direction, to spare the man the effort.

He even spied a flash of white as Ghost bounded into the room right behind Jon, setting the two guards beyond the doorway to leaping back, eager to be out of the way of another filial reunion. Grey Wind and Ghost rumped with each other, playful nips and snarls agitating the ancient maester, but the two sons of Winterfell didn’t care.

The sheer homesickness that threatened to overwhelm him almost embarrassed Robb, until he put Jon back down and took a moment to gather himself. But he still stood close; almost as if he was afraid his brother might disappear if he gave too much ground.

_This isn’t kingly._

But then he looked into the stone grey eyes of his brother, shared with their dead father and their missing sister, and felt no shame for his actions.

His taller, leaner brother.

He’d never missed his father more than when he looked at his brother with the same long face, the black hair and the beard that was teasing at bushy.

“Your Grace…..” Hearing those words, coming from his long missed brother, unnerved Robb greatly.

“Jon, not from you.” His head shook emphatically, even as Jon looked at him determinedly, jaw set in the familiar stubborn lines.

“Yes, Your Grace. You’ve been crowned by the will of your lords who count for their people. Their king and my own.” And there was the fly in the ointment.

A brief moment of perfect peace, ruined by politics.

Robb felt his eyes water now, as he understood just why the maester had been so secretive.

“No Jon. The watch takes no part, remember?”

 

End


	2. Bitterest Ambition

                                                               

Davos

 

Storms End

 

“Ser Davos.” The accompanying eyebrow raising was almost imperceptible and entirely worth the long trek up the Drum Tower stairs.

“Your Grace.” Was all he could muster in response.

He wasn’t a young man anymore, and after the ordeal with the Red Priestess and the fly by night return to the king, his courtesies were as flimsy as they were when he began practicing them 17 years ago.  


But for Stannis Baratheon, that was enough.

His curt nod at the tableau set before him was all he allowed to distract him from the next course of action. The spread of baked bread, hard cheeses, butter and flossed fish was unceremoniously pushed towards the man from FleaBottom, even as his high lords, those staunch and those yet untested eyed his common presence with distaste.

Davos Seaworthy was hungry too many times in his life to ignore the good sense of eating when offered, so he selected a few choice pieces, and then sat back and endeavored to eat as quietly as possible.

“Thanks to the unflagging obedience of my Onion knight, Ser Davos, I find myself in the halls of my childhood home, close to the Iron throne and the only chance for true justice to be felt across the realm.” The highborn assembly merely looked at Davos then, their contempt as solid as the cheese in his jaw.

“My brother, King Robert was given horns by the Lannister twins, and their incestuous spawn now wear the emblem of my ancestors, while they profane my rightful throne. For this, there will be a righting of wrongs. For this, there will be a toppling of pride. For this, there will be war!” The last he barked out, the corded muscles bunching under the black of the plain tunic he wore. His legs were firmly planted, the mud brown fabric tense against his resolve.

The Stormy King looked a sight then, his inky hair nearly all gone except for the half ring following his ears, and his blue eyes alive with the fierceness of the righteous. He towered above the table, the only man sitting in the high seat with his embered crown upon his head, the metal appearing to twist and writhe as if the flames were real.

His men were on their feet then, slamming hands upon the solid ironwood table and feet upon the legendary stones of the castles greatest tower as they took up a chant.

“King Stannis! King Stannis! The staunchest stag! The stalwart stag! The true king!!”

The honored royal allowed the tumult to continue for a few seconds longer, until his grimace manifested itself and he rose from his seat. The din died immediately, those unfamiliar with the king’s ways giving heed to those more acquainted.

“I’d walk this castle again my lords.” Was all the dismissal his lords got as their Storm king swept from the room, the last thing any saw of him was the only luxury he allowed, the cloth of gold sash that swept his shoulders.

When Ser Axell Florent went scrambling after him, all heard the kings iron tones disabuse him of that familiarity through the door.

“Alone Ser!” And that was its end.

 

 

                                                                                                                *******

 

 

He found himself in the rookery of the mightiest stormland castle, slowly and repeatedly telling Maester Cressen just what he wanted to share with his wife back in their little keep in the Rainwood.

_My Marya can’t read, so whatever I send home, I must take pains to ensure it wouldn’t embarrass her or my sons, who doubtless will be the ones to read it to her._

“Maester Cressen, please end it with my thoughts and prayers to the seven lay with her and our seven sons, the oldest four whom I shall continue to shield and guide rightly”. He finished almost shyly.

He felt silly laying such flowery words down by the etching of another man’s hand, but on the eve of battle, the allaying of fears was a necessary and often soothing process.

The maester was a tactful man, even in his advanced years, so he made no jests nor funny faces at the sake of a man facing the mortal coil.

As he made to leave, the old maester stopped him with a gnarled hand upon his sleeve, as he pressed an unopened scroll into Davos’s hand.

“For the king, from Kings Landing.” Wheezed the sour breath of the man. “Mayhap the lions were struck by the fervor of the Stormlords, and seek to mercy, rather than might.”

The cackle was good natured, and helped blunt the edge of the nerves that Davos hadn’t realized were so taut.

As he climbed the steps towards the king’s chambers, he wondered just what could prompt the Lannisters to reach out to King Stannis, right before their doom.

_Might it be surrender?_

He found energy he didn’t even know he still had past the short rest he’d gained after the council meeting, and began to take the steps two at a time, until he bent, panting on the uppermost level of the castle.

“Careful Ser. When onions sweat, we cry!” Came the jeers from some nightowl lords, playing at dice.

He ignored the sally, marching towards the kings doors with the utmost speed, only to be confronted with a vision in red already gaining entrance.

_Dammit! I need a minute to share potentially important information, and she’s here preaching about fire and terrors._

He wouldn’t be denied.

“Your Grace!” was all he managed before the door opened and she was all he could see. The Red woman was all over aflame, and while the Baratheon colors were black and gold, the additional color only heightened the aura of wealth in the room.

“Stand aside lady, for my Onion knight must have urgent concerns to rouse me so late”. The growled warning came from the plain bed, bedecked in the family colors.

“Your Grace!”

“My king!”

Both tried to entreat with the honorific, but only one was enabled.

“Ser Davos, if you will”. The king’s harsh tone ended the contest.

“Your Grace, there’s been a letter from Kings Landing. This very night, Maester Cressen told me. Mayhap they surrender?” He asked hopefully.

Which the miraculous response from his king swiftly destroyed.

King Stannis Baratheon wasn’t a man to laugh. He frowned around his favorite dishes, and scowled to receive a hug from his daughter.

But he laughed hard when he heard the soft headed question from his loyal man.

At the sound, the red eyes of the priestess were as cool as they ever were. No secret knowledge, no hidden meaning, just appraisal of a sort.

“No, Ser Davos. I think not.” His teary eyes he wiped with one large hand, even as he extended the other in expectance.

“Let us read it then.” And his king’s familiar frown fell onto his face.

“The lions roar louder than the stone”. He grumbled, as he threw the parchment onto the small desk beside his bed.

“What mummery does the woman attempt?”

But the king’s confusion wasn’t shared by Davos. All he felt was fear.

He’d been born Davos, son of a fisherman from FleaBottom, the shitpile of Kings Landing. But as a smuggler for most of his life, he’d heard stories from those who sailed further than sense commanded, eager for rare treasures and riches.

Or just adventure.

And no place offered more mystery than the ruins of the Rhoyne, where the ancient dragonhold once won a mighty victory, though it was of an enormous cost.

Many a sailor spoke of cursed voyages, taken at the behest of a rich nobleman, to see the Old Men of the River, and then further still, to see the ghastly shadow of Chroyane.

He wasn’t often able to tell his lads stories, as his days at sea were long, but when he could the younger boys always loved it when he shared the stories as the furthest sailing sea men told him, though he made it out as if he’d himself been aboard such voyages.

The giant turtles they loved, so big they made his ship seem a poppet next to a man, and the distant towers of the ruined city made him look a heroic adventurer.

But he never told them about the stories that had made him clutch his wife tighter at night. The tales of the Shrouded lord and those he ruled, the stone men.

They who lumbered and moaned in the foggy darkness, but would attack should they feel provoked.

Men and women affected by grey scale, the same disease that nearly killed the daughter of his king in her infancy. Those who can’t stop the spread of the affliction, eventually become monstrous creatures, lumbering and unable to speak.

Lost to their pain, they rage and roar, spreading their sickness by touch.

Licking his lips, Ser Davos looked at the parchment, seeing senseless scribbles, but the horror behind the message was terrifying.

His face must have shared his thoughts, for his kings powerful hands now grasped his shoulders in a brutal grip, the pain ignored as the stormy eyes glared and demanded answers.

“Speak, Ser! Speak to it now!”

His tongues movement felt sluggish, like boots to the ankle in mud, even as he hoped he was wrong.

“Your Grace, I fear this message is an ill portent in regards to the princess. I fear the Lannisters have made a move against Princess Shireen.” His nerves expelled the end of that in a cough, yet even as his eyes watered, he sought to hold the gaze of his king.

Ser Davos looked upon the towering form of his chosen king, and wished he’d the courage to draw out his leather pouch, the tangible gift of fortune his king gave him.

He sucked in his jaw, in preparation for the storm to inevitably follow.

“No.” It was said almost softly by Melisandre. “I fear they have made a move against the realm itself. But the Lord of light will show his hand nevertheless.”

Her heretical, pious surety was always disturbing, but with the heinous thoughts running through his mind now, he hoped against his heart that her greedy God did in fact favor his stormy king.  


His king looked between them both then, his heavy jaw clenched and his head subtly shaking.

“No. I have blockaded all import ships in the narrow sea, whilst allowing none to even near Dragonstone without my leave.” The square jaw shook again. “You’re mistaken. The both of you”.

_He could try harder. For the sad, lonely girl, and the stern man who didn’t know how to love her._

“Your Grace, please I beg you. Allow me a ship this very night, and I’ll go.” His pleas sounded dangerously close to willfulness to even his ears, but the chill on his neck spurred him on. ”You can still advance on the throne, what’s one man with an onion banner against the power you’ve arrayed here?! Allow me, sire. For Shireen.”

The impropriety ended King Stannis’s indulgence, rather than ensuring it as hoped.

The hard hand slapped the columned post of the aged oakwood bed, the resounding crack painful but the unyielding set to his gaze even more so.

“She is Princess Shireen Onion Knight, and she’s safe with those who know their duty staunchly taking care!” That the grinding of teeth could be so loud, and yet not draw blood was a mystery to Davos.

“Besides, the damnable Lannister shrew wouldn’t dare send her gloating notables if she wasn’t sure of success.” The king briefly looked to his side, at the hand he’d just clamped onto the bedpost. Drawing a deep, rattling breath, he continued.

“It is too late Ser. Either too late, and they’ve failed, or too late and they’ve succeeded. Or the woman has some low cunning and seeks to send me sailing away from her and her spawn, while giving her lord father time to make the city. None of these choices are to my liking. Robert may have danced to her tune, but my feet remain planted, and they point squarely in her direction.”

He turned from Davos then, his mind made up.

“My lady, your quiet is disquieting. Speak, as my Onion knight has.” His bright blue eyes searched her face for hints of something, Davos couldn’t tell.

“Your Grace, my night fires have given more smoke than usual these past nights, but the light of the Lord is still present, and it shines on you.” Her fervor was almost enthralling, and Davos could plainly see how she found so many willing converts in the people of Dragonstone.

King Stannis however, found her ridiculous.

“Lady!” He scoffed, derision dripping from his lips. “You speak of smoke following fire as if a riddle to be solved, while bleating about the resulting light. Well, let us hope the shine of your Lord renders our enemies blind and our aim true. Leave me. Say your prayers Ser for those we left behind on Dragonstone, for tomorrow our true march begins.”

 

 

                                                                                                            **********

 

 

But that didn’t happen.

For the next morning, the fastest of the Dragonstone fleet left behind to speed the royal family away should the war go against them, was seen pulling into the port of Shipbreaker Bay.

The sorrowful faces of the men aboard were nothing to the lurching, stumbling gait of the tall, thin woman who departed first.

Queen Selyse was not an attractive woman, but her anguish only made it harder to look upon her countenance. Her normally cold, disdainful eyes were rimmed in pink, and her thin, pointed nose was a raw, angry red.

She was normally a woman who clung to appearances the way a dog clung to his favorite shoe, but today it mattered not. She was running well before her guardsmen, not even taking note of the assembly of high lords and men at arms taking their knees before her. Their honored obeisance was ignored in her haste.

Her intended destination was clear.

The tall, crowned man who stood apart from all others, broad shoulders clenched, and huge hands fisted at his sides.

Rather than embrace upon the reunion, she merely fell to her knees, reaching out with a trembling hand that he grudgingly took.

Selyse Baratheon, rightful queen of the seven kingdoms, kissed his gloved hand, over and over again, as she whispered one word.

“Betrayal”.


	3. Deep Dugout

 

 

 

Jon Snow

 

The Crag

 

Jon Snow sighed as he sat on the uneven wooden bench in one of the Crag’s drafty few antechambers, which the small ruined fort could boast little of. Ghost was fine in the sea spurred chill, his white fur a glossy thick and repeatedly combed in the time they’d been waiting.

Even now, if he leaned against the door, he could hear the coolly commanding tones of his brother, as he dictated to his lords of the urgency of their new plans in the hastily called meeting.

_Plans that I’ve set in motion._

The sadness that Robb looked upon him with so soon after their reunion had first alarmed Jon, as he was afraid he’d come so far, only to arrive to more bad news.

_Was it their sisters? Had the ironborn renewed their advance?_

When Robb picked up his crown and placed it on his head, it looked right.

All through his ride south, Jon had tried to imagine his brother with a crown on his head. All that came to mind was the last time he’d been in Winterfell, and Robb had seen him off.

His hair had been curly then, and crowned only with a fresh dusting of snow.

When he’d followed the old maester through the cramped, pinched halls of the castle, all he could remember was his brother’s scent as they clasped each other in their leathers and furs in the courtyard.

But walking through the dark doorway, the brother he found was as different as he was the same.

The Robb Stark he saw was taller, with a broader frame more worthy of a northman than the young man he’d left behind. His hair was longer too, not quite as boyishly curly, but almost wavy as it touched his shoulders. The eyes were the same, but the mouth that was so easy to smile looked more like their fathers did. A mouth made to menace, as Ser Rodrik used to say.

Especially with the boyish beards they’d grown shaved completely now.

The effect on his kingly brother’s face was startling. His face looked younger absent the hair, but also colder and less patient. A face to make maidens swoon, but lords submit. A king’s face.

When Robb had picked him up in the rib crushing hug, he’d felt the difference constant battles made. The boy he’d left behind had a man’s strength now, and a rulers posture.

“Jon, I’m the king here, but northmen hold the watch and their vows to the highest of expectations.”

His brothers black crown glinted dully in the poor light as he shook his head.

“I can’t welcome you here. I won’t kill you, but I must send you back as soon as possible. You mean well, but this won’t be allowed.”

He almost laughed when he realized what his brother had been afraid of, only restraining himself when he saw the look of stern disapproval on the maesters face.

“Your Grace, I would never put you into such a position. I left before I swore my vows, and I bear documents from Lord Commander Mormont to prove it.” The visible relief on Robb’s face made him look half a boy again, like Bran almost. The Maester looked less tense as well.

His brother murmured soft appreciation to the man for his circumspectness, before showing him to the door, closing it behind him.

After Robb took a chair and gestured to another across from it, Jon began.

“Your Grace, I left the Wall because I realized that what our lord father asked me to do was unfair.” The consternation that statement put on Robb’s face was daunting, but Jon held up his hand as he continued.

“When we split our party upon the kingsroad, father promised me that the next time we’d meet, he’d tell me about my mother. I thought I was happy about it. But as time went on, and I grew more into the ways of the nights watch, I thought about how unfair that was to me.”

Robb’s blue eyes were thoughtful now, his crown placed on the bedside table.

“What if my mother was still alive? What if she weren’t? How about other siblings? What if the rumors about Lady Ashara were true?” Robb’s red brows kissed at the mention of that name. “What if I wanted to see the castle of my mother, hold the hilt of Dawn? As a man of the nights watch, I’d not be allowed to just go where I pleased, and if I had been given the truth of my mother, the watch would’ve merely been a prison, keeping me away from any possible connections. So I left not too long before fathers arrest and your march.”

He saw Robb doing counts in his head, just as he would as a boy, and sought to make it plain.

“I kept to the Wall though, just visiting all the castles and being sure I still wanted this for my future. And at the time, I did. From the Bay of ice, to the Shivering Sea. By the time I made it back to Castle Black, father had been arrested and you’d marched south. You were even a battle commander, with two victories.”

The boy Robb would’ve preened a bit at the praise, but this Robb merely waited with pursed lips.

“I likely would’ve been at your side for the march west, but the north isn’t what it was in your absence Robb.” He admitted hesitantly.

At this, his brother leaned forward, his eyes expectant.

“How so? He demanded. “I left Bran and Rickon in Winterfell, with a strong garrison around them. Along with Ser Rodrik as castellan of the north itself in my absence. The only concerns that should’ve warranted attention were the matters of the harvest feast.”

Jon slowly met his gaze, hating to be the bearer of more bad news.

“Robb, with the death of Lord Hornwood and his heir, the Bolton forces have been encroaching on the Hornwood lands. Led by Lord Bolton’s bastard son and his favorites. Ghost and I had slain a number of his pet dogs in the journey south, only to find the women they hunted flayed and raped. Lord Manderly and his men have been pushing back, but with the ironborn on the move, the north is boiling.”

The fury in the eyes of his brother was terrible, but the resolve beyond it was something fairer to gaze upon.

Ghost and Grey Wind were now looking up at them from the floor, side by side again, heads almost comically tilted as if in waiting. Robb didn’t disappoint.

The swift move from his chair to the door was brisk, and even more so was his tone that set his guards to summoning Olvyvar Frey.

The older boy’s head looked into the room, drawn to the white fur of Ghost as if a ghast in the gloom, before it fell on Jon Snow in the chair.

“Olyvar, wake my lords. All of them.” Came the biting command.

The boy blanched at the order, but even though quailing, tested the boundaries.

“But Your Grace, ‘tis the wenching hour. Before a march, I’m afraid-“

Robb’s Tully eyes came alight with wrath then, and the single low chuff of Grey Wind reinforced his meaning, before the gangly squire bowed his head and muttered apologies as he made off.

The door slammed shut on his departure, even as Robb slammed his crown on his side table.

“I swear the boy fears the Greatjon more than the man who took two of his fingers!”

He whistled through his teeth, even as his chest fell by increments.

“Now what else can you tell me of the north?”

                                                                                *********       

So Jon told him. He told him of how all he had to defend himself on the coast to coast trek was an old rusted short sword Mormont spared him, whilst claiming that the good steel was only for the good brothers.

That same rusted sword served him well, when he used it to kill a mangy hound sniffing around a terror struck woman dead in the trees. The scent of blood had drawn Ghost, but the wolf hadn’t touched the maimed, ruin of flesh that was dead in the low branches. But just as the direwolf had smelled her, so too did the mangy evil bitch that made to eat her. Jon tried to scare her off, but she had no fear of men. Ghost had slunk off for more investigating, and Jon had been trying to take her down without covering himself in the blood and fluids she was covered in, only to hear a low growl from the brush.

He thought it a wolf, so he climbed, but before he cleared the base it caught his cloak.

With a vicious yank, he fell damn near on top of the beast. The filthy, rank scent of the beast invaded his senses, and the thickness of its saliva made his stomach churn.

He could feel Ghost’s rage, but that was too far away to help.

Its snarls were terrible, and the yellowed eyes were worse. He wrapped his arm in what he could of his ripped cloak, and shoved that barrier right into the hounds face. The paws were pushing at him, even as the head whipped back and forth, trying to sink those bloody teeth into his flesh.

He leaned on the beast after it snagged its teeth in his cloak, and tried to maneuver his arm under the throat, all the while feeling scratches from the beast’s overlong nails tearing his garb.

He could hear Ghost pounding through the underbrush ever nearer, but the short sword was closer. Leaning on the beast with all his strength, he ignored the rancid stench of the jaws snapping inches from his face, even as he shakily slid the blade into its rib cavity.

The thrashing continued for several long seconds, and then it stopped.

Ghost was there then, and nearly knocked him over in its assurance of his health. He merely allowed he licks and snuffles from the wolf, as he pushed his own racing heart to settle. Until his eyes looked up and beheld the poor woman dead in the tree.

The body they took down, and covered with rocks.

They saw similar tragedies at least four more times, and the Hornwood smallfolk only relented and told him of the Bastard Boy and his hunts after he revealed he was a son of Eddard Stark, on a mission to meet the new king.

Jon had been so lost in the retelling that he was a little surprised to see Robb sitting there so patiently, the only giveaway to his true emotions being the fists clenched and the jaw hard.

The eyes though, they promised a reckoning that made Jon wonder what happened to his carefree brother.

The snarl that burst forth from him was worthy of the direwolf sigil that lay at his feet.

“If Roose Bolton thinks to expand his rule at the expense of the people of the north, those who followed the true and loyal Hornwood family, his ambitions will grant me his head.” The fury in his eyes only made the bite in his words more chilling.

“Your Grace, maybe Ramsay Snow acts alone in this. Has his father ever given you cause to doubt?” Jon offered up plainly.

But Robb wasn’t having it.

“No Jon, he hasn’t. But we both know our lord father never trusted him. And whatever his son leads his men in doing, the father must have explicitly left him in command. Otherwise no men would follow a bastard willingly…”He trailed off here, almost ashamed as if in his rage he remembered that Jon was also a bastard.

“Sorry brother.”

Jon almost wished it didn’t make sense, but it did.

_The men of Winterfell tolerated me, some even liked me, but had I taken airs upon myself to order them around as if I were a trueborn Stark, they’d mostly decline and ignore me._

_No, if Bolton’s bastard has the command, Lord Bolton must have endorsed it. And what manner of man can enthuse such treatment of people?_

_And Robb gave most of his men into the care of such?_

Robb seemed to reach the same conclusion.

The weariness of the rule, the sheer responsibilities of leadership seemed to be weighing him down, bowing his shoulders and giving him lines beyond his years. His guttered sigh seemed more worthy of Maester Luwin than Robb, but he straightened his slumped shoulders and suddenly he was the Young Wolf once again.

“Lord Bolton will be recalled to my side immediately.” Jon could only fathom at the blue ice of his brothers gaze, but his will was stone. “The Greatjon and Lady Mormont will continue driving the gold and cattle herds east, towards the riverlands, but I must return to Riverrun. From there, the Twins for this blasted wedding, and finally back north. The Boltons will be dealt with, after the Ironborn are driven back to their shitty rocks.”

_And yet more news I must bear him._

“Robb, there’s one more thing I must share with you.”

Robb looked at him in weary askance, as if wondering what more could he possibly share with him that bore thinking on.

“Out with it Jon. You’re already a solemn sort; keeping bad tidings bottled up will have you looking even more wrinkled before your time.” The weak attempt at a jest rang hollow, as if Robb knew that humor wouldn’t make his news any more tasty.

“When I finally got south, I was near exhausted. Ghost had been hunting and sharing his kills with me, but the constant movement, and the news of our father’s death, the girls’ captivity and the death of the people of Winterfell at KingsLanding weighed. So, so much it weighed. I was tired and sloppy in my travels at that point. I was taken by a patrol party from the Twins. Ghost had run off, but they spotted him before he got away. And so they knew me as a son of Stark.

At this, Robb stopped the pacing he’d started at the beginning of the story and looked at him, auburn brow furrowed in confusion.

“But they let you go, once they figured out your relationship to me, right? “

A silent head shake had him cursing the weasels now.

“No brother. They sought to keep me at their castles, pushing their bastard sisters and daughters at me, as if hoping for a marriage.” Jon winced as he remembered it all.

The Twins were a fairly new seat in the landscape of the riverlands, made only a few centuries before as a means of controlling the bridge and collecting the tolls it brought. Yet and still, for all the considerable wealth of the family, they were distinctly uncouth and crude in their manner. Not in the well-meaning, boisterous Umber way, but more self-serving. And Lord Walder Frey was the personification of self-serving.

“Heh, another Stark to grace my halls my boys bring me.” The wizened face of the ancient lord was peering, lips gumming at the sight of Jon Snow in the middle of his drafty, nondescript hall. “Be you the cripple or the babe?” His one yellowed tooth winked in the cavern of his mouth as he laughed until he wheezed.

The hall laughed with their lord, but Jon Snow only felt the freezing sureness of disdain as he gazed around the room. These weak jawed southrons laugh at the brothers of their avowed king?

When he spoke, the glacial color of his contempt touched the room.

“As you can see my lord, I am neither _crippled_ or a babe. I am Jon Snow, the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark, and I’m here to join my brother, Robb Stark your King in his campaign.”

Walder Frey blinked a few times, his rheumy eyes squinting and peering at Jon as if he were a piece of cold mutton placed on a trencher before him.

“Boy, your trueborn sister, Arda Stark. Does she look more like you, or Lady Fishwolf?” The old man demanded rudely.

“ _Arya Stark_ looks like me. She’s the only one of my father’s trueborn children to resemble the Starks of old. All the others took after Lady Catelyn Stark.” Jon had to stop himself from shouting the man down for his disrespect, but managed to grit out sullenly.  


If Lord Walder heard the contempt, he ignored it.

“Well, the Starks promised my youngest a princess. They didn’t say she’d be a pretty princess, heh!” He waved an age spotted hand away, a clear dismissal of Jon and his bastardly uselessness. Blue and grey liveried guards came to grab an arm each, ready to escort him back to his threadbare cell.

Jon had seen enough.

_I can’t imagine wild little Arya living in such a place, with such a horrible assortment of people. Even the northmen garrison Robb had left behind rather to keep to themselves, rather than avail themselves of the toothy generosity of the Twins. I can save her from this. It was what big brothers did for little sisters. Fuck the Wall._

“My Lord, how about a great lord instead of an ugly princess?” Jon bit out, while struggling against the brawny arms of the guardsmen.

Walder Frey held up a claw of a hand, and the struggle ceased.

“Which great lord boy?” The old man leaned forward, spittle clear on his chin as he leered at Jon expectantly.

_Robb forgive me._

“The lord of Moat Cailin my lord. King Robb plans to dam the swamp and drain it off, and once the ground there is suitable, he’ll rebuild one of the greatest castles in the north and establish a canal which it overlooks, connecting the Narrow Sea and the Sunset Sea. And I’ll be its lord.” He finished in what he hoped was a confident tone.

“And you’d expect me to trade your sister, for you?” Walder demanded greedily, waving away the whispered counsel of a lame footed relative.

“Aye my lord. With my sister wedded, you’d only gain a princess for a last son. A princess who curses, spits and looks like a boy urchin. Who embarrasses you at feasts, and fights with you in court.” He felt guilty to speak on Arya in such a manner, but it was worth it if she would be free of this place and its people. “With me, you’d get a great lord who would be of the oldest blood in the realm, while also being one of the soon to be wealthiest lords of the realm, by the accounting of the canal. And who would take one of your Frey women to wife. Choose me my lord.”

The old man stared at Jon for a long moment, Jon meeting his gaze arrogantly he hoped. The thin, rubbery lips worried at his one tooth for a while, his gnarled hands clasping the arms of the Twin throne upon which he sat.

“Fine! “ He crowed, an ugly smile spanning his face. “No ugly princess, but a great lord we’ll have!”

Jon wasn’t leaving anything to chance with these people however.

“My lord, perhaps a written statement outlining our agreement, signed by myself and your lordship, to be presented to the king for him to honor?” He finished shrewdly.

“Of course Snow, of course!” The old man was almost as gleeful as Rickon with a lemoncake, clapping his hands and his withered legs nearly dancing in his high seat.

“But, we’ll marry you today to a wonderful woman of house Frey!” He cackled with glee. “No reason to put off for tomorrow, what can be done today. Merret, bring your girl!”

A large, heavyset man with blunt features cursed, and shouldered his way through the crowd, slamming through one of the side doors in his rage.

_I wasn’t expecting this. Too soon, entirely too soon._

“My Lord Frey, surely you can’t expect me to bring such a lady on campaign with me? My lord, I’ll be going into battle!” He protested at the thought of a weak chin woman following him about with droopy eyes. There’d be no easy sleep with such a face beside him.

“Today boy. Or not at all.” Came the reedy voice of the Lord of the Twins.

Jon and the old lord were at an impasse, eyes locked and lashing one another with silent challenges. But Jon knew that for the sake of his sister, he’d be married by nightfall.

“Today”. Came the quiet submission.

His moment of realization was cut short by the return of the ogreously ugly Merret Frey, and his supposed daughter.

Jon looked at her, befuddled and annoyed in her plain brown gown.

She was tall, at the very least. Her hair was a mousy brown, as were her eyes. But she ruined the gift of her height by staring determinedly at his hands, which were fisted at his waist. Her gown did her no favors, but her frame underneath it was adamant about attention. Her breasts were huge, and she didn’t slouch to hide them, but instead, kept her shoulders thrust back. Her waist was slender, but her hips were prominent, and he suspected if she turned to the side, her backside would be even more so. Her weak chin was unfortunate, but she had extremely full lips to make up for it. All in all, she was rather robustly made for a lady, but it wasn’t a problem in Jon’s eyes.

“My lady…” He started, and her dull brown eyes flashed up to meet his.

“Amerei.” Her glaring father offered.

“Are you agreeable to this match?”

She dropped her gaze again, peering intently at his waist, only to slowly raise her head this time, appraising his form entirely before licking her big pink lips and nodding slowly.

“Yes my lord. I’m agreeable to marrying you.” Her voice was high and breathy, childlike almost and a stark contrast to her heavily fecund figure.

_Very well._

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

They were married in the small sept of the Twins.

The bride wore her plain brown gown, and Jon Snow was married in his washed leather jerkin and breeches.

It was a modest, plain and short affair. The men of the Twins seemed to have some sort of jest in play, constantly congratulating Jon on his fair maiden and the years to come together.

The food was bland, the music was off-key, and the singer warbled.

All through it all, his new wife merely looked at him from the corner of her eyes, and declined dancing with her relatives. He looked at her from his peripherals, noting how her bosom loomed heavily as she swayed with the music. Once, when she ate cured cream off the spoon for desert, he felt his crotch jerk as she verily overwhelmed the cup of the spoon with her large lips, and seemed to swallow the lump of cream without even chewing it slightly. The noisy gulp was the most sound she’d made since she recited her vows in the sept, but her eye was clearly on him as it went down her throat. He felt the tightness of his breeches clearly then, and the sweat gathering on his brow as the night wore on.

The bedding ceremony was cut short by the snarled rasp of a wolf outside the hall, and in their distraction he took the time to grab her hand and run for the chambers they’d been given. He looked at her as he closed the door behind him and threw the lock, panting in her undergarments they were unable to get off her before the snarls of Ghost threw them off. He’d thought he understood before, when he looked at her, but he knew nothing.

Her breasts pushed the front of the thin garment out, away from her body, and on the chilly floor, her feet danced, making her breasts bobble heavily against each other. Her small nipples at the end of each hill were hard, pressing against the thin cloth. Even below, her stomach was soft and curved, but her ample hips and the furred vee between them drew the eye and made his loins ache.

“My lord.” she breathed huskily. “May I ask you to…?” And turned her back to him.

He understood, crossing the room to her back. He swept her long braid over her shoulder, taking a moment to admire the sweep of her neck, and the rising hillocks of her tits below. It was almost obscene, the way they pushed her against her gown. With his vantage point, all he could see was pale, soft skin, and the heavy rising and falling of her breathing.

“I’m sorry my lady, but I must.” He uttered, before crushing her back to his front, while wrapping his arms around her waist. She exhaled a shaky breath, and then placed her hands upon his. He slowly drew them up, until he felt the heavy undercurve of her tits on the back of his hands. She was still holding his hands, and now slowly turned them over, until the heavy weight of her breasts sat in his hands. He gently weighed them, kneading them gently as he ran his hands over their pale expanse. He tugged on her hard pebbled nipples, even as she slowly ground herself against his hard length.

When he lost control, she yelped but it ended in a giggle.

His hands, that were surely groping her, suddenly grasped the neckline of her shift and ripped it in two. The tatters caught briefly on her heavy breasts, but he yanked it down. Now she stood naked before him, robust in all the sexual aspects of womanhood. When she turned, and he saw the heavily furred mound, a beast was woken inside him.

All too soon, his clothing became a prison. He tore at his leather jerkin, her hands helping him with the buttons. His breeches were shoved down and kicked off, and then he too was naked. He directed her towards the bed with a swat upon her meaty rear cheek, and he nearly leapt upon her as he watched them dance and alternately rub against one another as she skipped towards the bed.

He took a moment to take in a breath, the cool air calming the beast inside him. She sat in the middle of the bed, on her knees and waited for him. He looked upon her, homely face, but her body was enough to make a septon marry a whore. Her breasts were high and large, curving away from her body at the bottom, with the nipples pointing at the ceiling. Her hips were big and soft, and her thighs meaty. Even the lips of her mouth were scandalous, as she pursed them in anticipation.

He remembered that spoonful of cream, and the beast was back.

He nearly tackled her to the bed, and as her arms went around his neck, her thighs opened to him. He planted himself between them, even as his hands set to grabbing whatever they could hold. His left went to her left breast, squeezing the flesh even as his lips sought the nipple. When they clamped on, she shrieked and nearly threw him off in her response, even as her thick legs clasped his muscled waist. They locked around him, holding him against her wet heat; she was rubbing against his taut belly. His right hand slipped around her waist, clutching at her meaty buttock, his fingers dusting the crack.

Her supremely soft lips nibbled his ear, as she whispered “Please, please my lord, please.”

_No more begging._

He suddenly lurched free from her clasping arms and legs, and loomed over her. She had no modesty, folding her arms across her belly, and dragging them up until they framed her breasts, pushing them into the air as if an offering to the gods of Ibben. Her legs she spread widely, her heated scent making his head spin and his prick cream. He grabbed a meaty leg in each hand behind the knee, pushing them up until they smashed into her heavy tits. Her eyes boggled and her breathing hitched at the pressure such a position placed her in, until he dropped his manhood into the damp furrow between her thighs. She stopped breathing, and her eyes crossed as she looked at the length of him. Then she opened her arms again, and made to hold her own thighs to her breasts, even as she slightly hunched her crotch forward, trying to draw him in. He took a moment to rest like that, his meaty fuckable wife humming in anticipation, and then he slammed it home.

She squawked like a stuck raven when he hit bottom, his balls smacking wetly on her arsehole. He pulled himself back, only to fall again into her heated depths, thus hearing her emit another squawk. He picked up a rhythm then, skewering her mightily, even as her eyes boggled and her cunny feathered on his prick. It was like the first time he’d had a lemoncake as a child. He leaned on the back of her thighs now, and her hands pulled and twisted on her own teats. He languished in the meaty thwack of their bodies colliding, even as her eyes continued to boggle and her overly full lips pulled into a grimace, as the squawks picked up in frequency and shrillness.

Soon all the sounds in the chamber were his snarls, her squawks, and the sloppy slap of their bodies pounding together.

Her brown eyes (how could he ever think them dull) were glistening now, as he pounded home in earnest. They were still boggled, and her big pink lips were pursed and blowing air out as he pounded prick in, but they were fixated on him. He dropped his gaze to her chest, and the pink flush that had spread over her collar to her sternum. Her big breasts were rocking now, and as they neared the finish, he took his lips and fastened them to the right one, right around the nipple. Her breath sounded like a stallion above his head, even as he slowly gripped the nipple in his teeth and pulled his head back. She groaned out a long, low “eurghhhhhhhhhhhh” as he stretched the nipple on the teat tautly, while sending his prick in deep, grinding it against her mound on the downstroke.

He felt his balls tighten up in the sack, and then flutter, and bit down on her obscenely stretched teat, while her eyes bulged then squinted, and a hot, warm spray soaked his balls. The surprise of that spray, triggered his own release, and he released the teat, watching as it sprang back to its normal shape, even as he felt like his prick spewed a river between his wife’s greedy thighs.

The aftershocks of such a union were new to Jon, and he fell on his wife’s soft frame, his softening prick nestled in the wet mess of her crotch, his head pillowed on her heavy, gnawed on teats.

Her small, soft hands rubbed his back and sides, even as she wrapped her meaty legs around him.

She rolled her crotch against him, her need clearly not satiated, and he weakly waved a hand in supplication. She giggled, and rolled him onto his back. As he lay there, panting, she rolled to her hands and knees and made to reach for the wine on the other side of the bed.

As he turned his head to look at her, all he saw was the large, heavy cheeks of her bum, and how they slowly parted as she stretched. He saw the glistening mess of her cunny, but above that, her small buttonhole of an arse, nestled in the dark between those two ample cheeks. Her heavy tits swayed underneath her, so large that even on her hands and knees, her nipples brushed the bed sheets. He felt the blood flowing back to his cock, and sat up with a groan.

“Stay there my lord.” Came the breathy order from his wife. “I’ve plenty of married sisters, and they told me to expect to half to rouse you again on my wedding night.”

Jon was tired, so he was happy to rest a moment. He closed his eyes for a second, and his breathing was evening out, when he felt the wet touch of something on his prick. His eyes flew open, only to see his wife kneeling between his thighs, with her meaty arse to the door. All he could see from his pillowed headboard was her hair sweeping down over her pale shoulders, and her breasts squashed out to the side of her arms. Beyond that, it was her soft, curving back, dipping in at the waist, only to heavily flower at her hips and the white hills of her buttocks.

Her mouth was sinful, the big lips he’d watched at dinner being positively vulgar as she fit them around the crown of his prick. Her hair on his belly was a caress, but her lips and hot breath on his prick was a testament to the gods. He gently placed a hand on her head, and she whimpered as he pushed her head down further on his prick, her saliva pooling in his crotch. He sought out her nipples then, putting both hands into the search. When he made purchase, he roughly tweaked them, and she willingly sent her head down another inch. Soon, after a game of tweaks and inches, groans and whimpers, her lush lips were wrapped around the base of his prick. He could hear her breathing noisily through her nose, her hair rustling as her nostrils flared for her efforts. He could feel himself begin to boil, and sought to stop her ministrations.

“Enough milady, or I’ll spill it down your throat, and you won’t get another for the night”. He warned her huskily, and soon enough, she drew her head back from his lap. Her wet belch was off-putting, but it was for his sake. Her lips were puffy and swollen, and he had half a mind to drag her mouth back over his crotch, but he had other plans.

He grabbed her arm, and in one smooth motion threw her face down into the pillows at the top of the bed. She yelped in surprise, and sought to turn over when he grabbed her around her hips and held her there. She stilled immediately, feeling his renewed prick push strongly against her bumcheeks.

Jon took care to spread her legs, and she promptly arched her back, throwing her big arse into the air and making him breathe in through his mouth at the sight. She sent her small hands through the gap between her legs, and possessively took hold of his prick and balls, guiding him to her brown button, before gasping and quickly dropping her aim lower. He rubbed the crested hills of her arse slowly for a second, running his finger down the crack before surging forward with his prick. She squeaked when he rammed in, her hands releasing his genitals, and white knuckle grasping the pillows alongside her head.

The meaty slap of his crotch against her rear cheeks was different than before.

So was the visual.

All he saw now was the rolling trembling of her cheeks, one against his surges, and two against each other. He picked up a pattern, hands grasping her in the fleshy bend of her hips, pulling her meaty seat back even as he thrust his slim hips forward. The resounding impact was embarrassingly loud, but louder still were his wife’s rampant shrieks and her vigorous lurchings to meet him. This time it was further off than before, and he meant to enjoy it. He crowded her crotch from behind, pulling her bum up even further, until it was halfway up his stomach and she was nearly upside down. He could hear her labored intake, even as she pushed her hips back at him mightily. Her cunny was rippling all over his prick, but he was still aways off. He pounded it home for her sake, the cool air in the room like a balm for his back even as he continued feeding his front into his wife’s internal fires.

She was begging sweetly now. “Please my lord, please put it out.”

He smoothly lowered them both back to the mattress, pulling her legs out until she was flat on her stomach and he was lying on her back, his prick smashed up against her meaty arse. He stuck his hands on either side of her head, and began lowering himself into her wet heat, taking care to grind against her on the downstroke. Her breath hitched, and her eyes crossed as she turned her head to the side. He felt her hips twitching, and picked up the pace, only to get a shock when he felt his thumb slide into something wet. He looked up, and she had moved her head closer to one of his hands right beyond her shoulder, and was now sucking hard on his thumb. The sight of those full lips wrapped around his finger, and the coarse moans she was making around it, were too much. He felt his balls catch the fever, and knew she wasn’t going to make it. He pulled his thumb from her mouth with a wet plop, only to replace it with his middle finger. She eagerly sucked on it, wrapping her tongue around it and humming in her pleasure. He wanted to let it stay there, but he had other ideas.

He forcefully repositioned her on her knees with one hand, with her hands again grasping the pillows her face was buried in. He pulled up her mountainous rear, and pounded it home. He took the wet middle finger that was still glistening with saliva, and aimed at the small eye that was appearing each time he rammed it in deep. When he felt her cunny flutter pick up, in one smooth motion, he slid his finger home. When he pushed it into her dry heated arse, her head snapped up, and her cunny grabbed him like a baker grabs a thief. He saw the tendons in her neck stand out in clear relief, and her face going from a flushed pink to an angry red. She slammed her ample arse against him, and left it there, even as a low, stomach churning groan fought its way up her throat, to wheeze past her thick lips.

“Gawwwwddddd, ohhhhhhh fuuuccckkkkkkk……ugrh”

Was all she said before she sagged against him, her arse still high and a finger still inside.

He felt his balls boil over, and he grabbed her hip with one hand, and pulled her even tighter against him. It was as if his cue was hers, as the throbbing release had her weakly rub her arse against his crotch, even as a small warm spray coated his balls.

They fell asleep like that, him hunched over her arse, and a finger still claiming territory. When they woke up the next morning, the uneasiness of most newlyweds was present, but after watching her get dressed, the fire was back too, but it had to be banked for a time.

Their exit from the Twins was with little fanfare, and even though his wife wanted a large escort into the west, Jon convinced her that a smaller party of two, along with Ghost for scouting would be safest. And now here they were.

When he told Robb about the wedding, and the vowed lordship to save Arya, his brother the king looked pissed at first, likely over the significant cost of such an endeavor, but at the thought of their little sister being spared a fate of life at the Twins, his ire cooled.

“Funny enough, I just outlined to my lords plans to rebuild the Moat.” Robb chuckled. ”I just never thought of actually damming the swamp, and creating a canal. The cost of that level of construction would be prohibitive, especially after a war like this.” He shook his head, consternation wrinkling his brow, but it passed and wry amusement returned.

“But we can make you lord of Moat Cailin easily enough, and then just put Frey off with ravens of gathering funds for the building of the canal.” He clapped a strong hand on Jon’s shoulder then, giving him an affectionate squeeze before letting go. “The man has seen ninety name days, we’ll outlast him.”

“Your Grace.” Was all he said, as he took his leave.

“And Jon, make sure your wife is present on the morrow. I’ve a desire to meet my good-sister.”

His smirk was vastly punchable, but he was king now.

That was then, and this was now. He sat outside the small solar, eager for sleep which his wife had already beaten him too.

The fact that he was freshly wedded and bedded still left him baffled. For so long, he’d only truly felt responsible for himself, worried about making his own way, that the fact that from now on, everything he did would affect another was daunting, and downright scary at times.

The minor blessing that his wife wasn’t deathly afraid of Ghost was a small balm for the raw burn of his disavowal of the watch.

As was the clear enjoyment both found in their sharing of the marriage bed.

_My winsome wife guards her tongue, but for the night when she is free with her moans and groans._

When they’d first stealthily approached the small fort with Ghost leading the way, all he could think of was the pure poverty it represented, dismal when contrasted to the wealth of the other seats they’d spied from afar.

“My father always looked down on the Westerlings of the Crag, and my brothers took to calling it the Crack.” She said in that high pitched breathy voice of hers. “I always liked that nickname.”

He merely snorted, even as he eyed her profile with a raised brow.

_I expect you would._

In the dark cloak and gown, with the evening dusk on the horizon, her form was shadowed, but he knew well what lurked underneath. Even now, as he subtly looked, he admired her rolling seat on the saddle.

He could easily remember the way her hips rolled so vigorously against him that morning, alone in the western countryside in a small tent, defenseless but for a vigilant white direwolf. He’d had to stuff the edge of her cloak in her mouth, to keep her low moans and groans from becoming unsafe.

But there was nothing to be done for the nearly violent coupling they had chanced.

He was on his back, and she straddled him, her warm solidness reassuring in the dark. But even in the dark tent, he could see and feel her pale form moving. Naked they were, but for the cloak edge he’d placed in her mouth, all he could see were her moving parts, her breasts swaying heavily in time with her determined hips, her hands almost claws as they claimed his chest, her thighs pale columns gripping him. At one point she’d spat the cloak out her mouth, and he moved his hand to cover her lips, only to have her suck his middle finger into her hot mouth. She sucked so hard on that digit that he swore his prick gained another inch, and her pace picked up, her hips almost bruising his pelvis in her intensity. The small space reeked of sex, and he almost understood why Ghost refused to enter.

She sucked hard on that finger for a few seconds, curling her tongue around it only to spit it out, and grasping his arm at the wrist, move it down her body slowly, taking care to linger at her heavy tit and press it there, before continuing the journey down to her waist, and then around her hip.

He knew what she wanted then.

He gripped that meaty haunch, admiring the flexing push of her muscles, before taking his fingers and feathering her crack. Her eyes crossed in that way they did when she really got going, and then they bulged when his middle found the small button between her cheeks. His finger danced around the pucker, and her breath picked up, sounding like a destrier in a lanced charge.

“Do it.” She gritted out between clenched teeth, her nostrils flaring almost comically, so he gave her what she wanted.

He slid it in to the first knuckle, and her hands that were grasping his chest became true claws and raked welts down his front. He whistled at the burn, she shoved back on her thrust, driving his finger deeper, and he drove up with his hips, planting his feet and holding her aloft, a foot off the ground with a finger in her arse and a hand clutching her thigh to hold her balance.

His lusty wife managed to control her groans, but her body jerked and spasmed as she precariously swayed in the air, and her eyes went from bulging to squinting, even as she sprayed her fluids all over his balls.

When he dropped his hips, she landed heavily on him, her breasts squashed between them and her nipples pebbled in arousal. Their linked panting was quiet in the darkness, even as she massaged his balls gently with her soft small hand as the other found his and pressed their palms together.

_Being married wasn’t the worst thing in the world, perhaps._

That was a few nights ago, and now Jon Snow was about to enter the fray, only this first battle would be against the politics of the established northmen and riverlords. Neither would be happy about his ascension, especially to one of the oldest and formerly greatest seats in the north.

At that moment, the door leading to the inner solar creaked open, and the open, earnest face of his good-uncle by marriage Olyvar Frey peeked around the edge.

“Master Jon, the king bid you enter.” With that he was gone, and Ghost swiftly followed into the quiet room, not waiting for Jon to precede him.

The highborn faces awaiting him in the gloomy solar were clearly tired, and the irritation that often accompanies weariness was plain to see. The only welcoming gaze in the room was Robb’s, though the line of his mouth was austere and tense.

Jon quickly crossed the room to stand beside Ghost, who’d already gotten comfortable beside Grey Wind in the rear of the room, where the two long tables occupied by the great lords had an opening. The northmen sat beside riverlords, choosy seating be damned at this late of a meeting.

Robb waited a moment, before he began.

“My brother Jon Snow left the Wall in good standing, before he spoke his vows. He then took a journey fraught with peril for the sole purpose of bringing vital information to my ears.” At this, the room bristled with confusion, as the storied lords anticipated the worse. “Lord Bolton’s bastard son, Ramsay Snow has been encroaching on the Hornwood lands in the wake of the deaths of my loyal lords of Hornwood. Lord Manderly has been fighting back, but holds his greater power in restraint due to the invasion of the Ironborn. The smallfolk of the Hornwood lands are being terrorized, hunted and flayed for sport. It is now more than ever, imperative that I return north. But I reward those who serve, so I called this meeting to let my lords know, that from this day forth, my brother will not be a Snow, but a lord in truth, for the foreseeable future holding Moat Cailin as his seat. He brought me vital news of the north, so from henceforth he’ll be my shield to the north.”

The northmen were clearly against such a move, the brush bearded nobility openly glaring and making to rise. But the reciprocated growls from both present direwolves had them all promptly reseated. But Robb never skipped a beat.

“He also gave greatly of himself for the sake of our family, so I can do no less for him.” Robb finished.

The room was silent at that, the assembled lords clearly angered at the swift rise of a bastard brother, yet clearly unwilling to call the king to task for favoritism. All held their tongues, except one who had nothing left to lose.

“And will you also make him your Hand, Your Grace, to rule over me and mine?” Came the embittered rasp of Lord Rickard Karstark. “Or will it be Lord Manderly? Have you chosen between the brother or the smother, Your Grace?”

The silence in the room was conspicuous, broken only by Robb’s cold rebuke.

“The north has no history of Handship, as well you know Lord Karstark. Nor do I have any such inclination to mimic said Targaryen tradition.” The gaze of the king was frost as it fell on the sullen lord. “I will continue to do my own ruling, as I’ve also done my own killing thus far. Should I need to temporarily appoint a second, I will, and I expect my loyal lords to honor such as I do. But there will be no Hand north of the Trident.”

Frosty blue met the stormy grey gaze, and Jon marveled at how Robb never even hesitated to imperiously tilt his chin up as he coldly stared down a man three times his age.

Down was correct, as Lord Rickard gave way to his king, and averted his gaze. That challenge defeated, Robb turned his bright blue gaze to Jon, relief apparent at the next step.

“Kneel brother, and share your words.” Came kinder tones.

Jon stiffly walked the length of the tables, feeling the judgmental gaze of the lords peering at him, pulling away his layers, hoping to find the scared little boy underneath. They’d find no such weakness at his calling.

He slid to a knee before his kingly brother, long hair falling before his eyes, obscuring all but the stiff leather boots of his king. His mouth felt dry, and he briefly, maddeningly wished to hold his wife’s hand, so he could feel one of the reassuring squeezes she’d taken to giving him after they coupled.

“I-I pledge my life to you Your Grace.” His voice cracked noticeably, and a titter ran through the room before Jon felt the reassuring presence of Ghost at his side. That silenced them. He continued, clearer than before.

”I promise the first of my harvest, the sword of my fealty and the warmth of my hearth. To any who follow after you, I pledge the same. And all of my line after me will follow my example. I pledge to protect your commands, as I will your people. My loyalty is yours Your Grace, as well as my counsel. Long may you reign.”

The heavy weight of his brother’s hand on his shoulder ended Jon’s vows, and the squeeze told him to rise. He did so, his back to the room, all his focus on Robb as he let his hand linger on his shoulder. Then he patted it before turning to address the rest of the room.

“My lords, I give you Jon Hoarfrost!” The clapping was halfhearted at best. But Robb didn’t let that phase him.

“My lords, this is an opportunity that we must take advantage of. Two sons of Eddard Stark are currently in the south. I mean to march north on the morrow, but with Lord Hoarfrost here, we can leave the ruse behind that I never left. I mean to take six thousand of my best horse north, northmen and riverlords both, but the remaining horse and infantry will stay behind, under the command of my great-uncle Ser Brynden the Blackfish. As will Lord Hoarfrost. He will become the mummer king in my absence, yet truly under the direction of my uncle.” The anger that rippled around the room was palpable, yet Robb weathered it well.

“Your Grace, I don’t mean to doubt but this is a bit much.” Came the questioning tone of Ser Marq Piper, who appeared to be given to rashness, given the way he ignored Grey Wind’s growls at his rising. “We’re to put our men in the hands of an unproven boy, who flew down from the wall several months ago? Has he even seen battle yet?” The man finished reasonably, agreeing grunts echoing from the other lords.

“No, Ser he hasn’t.” Robb waved two fingers at Grey Wind, who ceased his growling.

”But my Uncle has. And it’s he who will be in command while I’m in the north setting things aright. Lord Jon will be under his command, learning from him, and generally being a nuisance to the Lannisters. They’ve not seen me, Lord Tywin’s host, and my brother is the very image of the Starks of old. Let them chase him and my uncle around, being bled and weakened, and when I sweep back south with more men, I’ll end this war once and for all.”

He turned to a silent Jon now, whose mind was reeling with the revealed developments. The heavy hand was back, and the squeeze this time was reassuring.

“Brother, can you do this? Learn from my uncle who is well versed in war, so that one day in the future, we might go north together for good?”

Robb’s face never looked so much like he had on the day their father left Winterfell with Robert Baratheon. The king was gone, and his brother and best friend was all that remained.

Jon turned to look at the storied knight of Riverrun, silent thus far in council, the man who would be his commander in truth, and a loving uncle to the woman who made it plain that she wouldn’t care if a sleeping horse fell on him from his youngest days.

The same blue eyes that had frightened him into silence at supper, who had quelled his playful war cries in the yard as he and Robb sparred with one another, now coolly took his measure.

But the face that held such eyes wasn’t lovely in its feminine mold, but harsh and lined. The eyes shrewdly peeling him apart, seeking to see if the core underneath would be worth his efforts.

“With pleasure Your Grace.” Was all that needed to be said.

 

End


	4. Grey Gardens

 

  

Garlan Tyrell

 

The Reach

 

He smelled the banked cook fires before the man opened his mouth from the lifted flap in the tent.

“S-Ser Garlan?” The fresh faced page stammered as he eyed the gleaming sword Ser Garlan the Gallant smoothly sheathed. “A decision has been made. Lord Tyrell has sent for you.”

_Of course he did._

His father Mace Tyrell might not be much of a warrior or politician, but when he wanted to make a strong show, he’d never fail to summon his strong boys to his sides.

So many days of recent memory, spent standing silently at his portly father’s rear, as old guards and young fools bantered and bristled, swore and shouted. And all knelt.

First for Renly, next for Stannis, and some for home.

_Home is where Leonette is. Home is warm summer days, and fresh fruit plucked from the branch. Home is the soft smiles of a new wife, and the calm quiet of Willas._

He found himself weaving through the enormous war camp, the many sigils he grew up memorizing hanging limply from their banners, for this far from the stormlands the breeze was nonexistent.

Just a few weeks ago, there were many and more here. Sixty thousand were present now, mostly foot, but with at least twenty thousand knights and freeriders.

But before the Blackening, it was eighty thousand. On that dark day, a quarter of the power assembled left them, to ride under the embered crown.

So many vowed pledges, so much honor. Proven to be so hollow. On both sides of the sword.

The last council meeting had nearly come to blows, for tempers were high, and bitterness was long curdling.     

“We marched to break the Lannisters, and now you entertain the thought of allying with them?! Craven! False man!” Ser Loras lunged at the unfortunate Fossaway knight, only to be caught and restrained by Ser Garlan and Lord Randyll Tarly. He saw the uneven nose of his father’s fiercest bannerman twitch as he caught the full force of Loras’s angry breath.

His brother Loras was normally the prettiest of the Tyrell children, but in the aftermath of Renly’s death, his brother had become a sour, unwashed thing of bitterness and cynicism. Even then, he’d been leaning heavily on his wine, unkempt in his appearance with the scruffiness of the common, at least by the Tyrell standard.

His father wasn’t gifted with the most commanding presence, but there were times when he showed what he’d obviously placed in his sons, even if he neglected it in himself.

“Loras Tyrell, you will either conduct yourself as befitting a man grown, knighted and proven or you will be no longer allowed to have a say in the charting of courses.” The Fat Flower had clearly had enough. “Choose man, choose!”

The favored son, Loras obviously wasn’t accustomed to being dressed down, let alone in esteemed company, but he merely shrugged off the hands restraining him, sullenly scratched at his exposed neck and submitted.

”I’m a knight.”

His father’s acute embarrassment at the shameful display was made clear when he sought to return the meeting to the potential choices ahead.

“Very well. Again my lords, let us discuss civilly the roads open before us. Renly Baratheon is dead, and his stormland power has gone to his elder brother Stannis. The Lannisters hold the capitol, and the Starks hold the north, riverlands and portions of the west. The Vale has been silent thus far, and thank the seven so have the snakes.” His father closed with a relieved sigh at the last bit.

“King Renly!” Came the hiss from Ser Loras, but his father ignored it and continued unabated.

“Lord Baelish offers us the throne itself, by way of a marriage between the Lady Margary and King Joffrey. If we join our power to the Lannisters, we’ve enough men to push the direwolves back into the cold from whence they came, but more importantly, break Stannis once and for all.”

“Father, no.” Those were the first words Garlan had spoken in the meeting that night, but he still felt it had to be said.

Mace Tyrell, didn’t agree. His brown eyes widened, and then promptly narrowed at the outright challenge.

“Ser Garlan, you forget in whose camp you stand. In who pays for the arms you bear. You forget your father!” He blustered, angry at the impertinent displays from now both of his sons. But Garlan was ready for him.

“My lord father, you forget your daughter. You forget the promises you made to her as a young girl, when you promised only the best for her future. The promises you made to our lady mother.”

The Tyrell banners were a golden rose on a green backing, but the red his father was swiftly becoming was more worthy of the Targaryens than any Reachlord.

“Out! All but my sons leave me.” The lord’s swift exit was only helped by the shaking finger pointing at the tent flaps.

“You serious fool; I’d make your sister a Queen. A Tyrell queen at that. The highest our house might ever be. There is no better future than that!” The saliva that accompanied his fervor was unwelcome, but not unexpected.

“Father, you haven’t seen who she’d be marrying. I have. I was at Lord Starks tourney. I’ve spent time in the capitol. Joffrey isn’t right, my lord.” The resolute set to Mace Tyrell’s florid face told him he was failing.

“Ask Loras!”

“How about you ask me?” The soft tones from the other side of the fabric had all three men swearing as they spun.

Queen Margaery Tyrell-Baratheon was resplendent in her black and gold mourning gown. Her long brown hair was tightly coiffed and glossy, and her chestnut eyes while sad, only added to her aura of maturity.

“Marg-“ Mace Tyrell started, exasperated.

“No father, if you love me, you’ll hear from me, won’t you?” Her entreaty, aided by the woebegone expression in her eyes, clinched it.

An unbecoming grunt, followed by an impatient wave of his hand, had the Lord of Highgarden assailed by the last of his three present children.

“The realm is at war. The Starks fight the Lannisters, the Lannisters fight the Starks and Stannis, and the Greyjoys fight the coasts. Whoever we aid, likely win the conflict. As to that, we must choose the Lannisters. The Starks don’t care about the greater south, and they worship trees beside. Stannis murdered my husband, and his fire god is a terrible thing. The Greyjoys need not be entertained as a power. So the choice must be the lions, father. They’re cruel, brutal and treacherous, but they’re the closest to what the overall realm would swallow. And they need us more than we need them. That will pluck their claws and pull their fangs. Peace is possible with them.”

Silence sat in the tent following the queen’s advisement.

Garlan saw his father look at Margaery with new eyes, as if just now seeing what the rest of the family already knew.

But Garlan knew he had to make sure his little sister was sure of what she was walking into.

“Marge, you are right in all that. But Joffrey Lannister wasn’t a good prince, from what I’ve seen. And with his family around him, the chances of him becoming a good man and king are slim to none. And then, there’s the letter that Stannis sent to the realm. Two hands of good health died in short succession. The entire Kings Landing branch of the Lannister family isn’t right sweet sister.”

He’d never spoken so candidly about the royal family before, to anyone aside from Leonette, but with his sister in their sights, it needed to be said.

He was never his sister’s favorite brother. Too yard minded to bother with, honestly.

But the shining love in her brown eyes as she laid a soft hand on his cheek, to reassure him made him feel sadness for the space between them.

“I know Garlan. And I thank you for the care and concern, but we’ve grown strong. And still may yet grow stronger. And I’ll have Loras to be by my side, as a kingsguard knight. There will be no wedding without his swearing the vows first.”

With that, she pulled her hand away, and kissed their father on his stunned cheek as she swept by them to exit just as quietly as she entered.

Loras broke the silence first.

“I’ll do it.” Was all he said as he ran an appraising hand over his stubbled cheeks and filthy garb,

Mace Tyrell looked like a cat in a cream bucket as he looked at his last challenger, the spare son who looked most like him. A thin brow arched as if to engender more comers.

None coming, he nodded at his sons and followed his daughters exit. To send ravens agreeing to ally with butchers.

That was last week, and Garlan had tossed and turned on his cot all through the dark hours since. Dark dreams that held him constrained.

His sister, being beaten by a blonde king, with leering emerald eyes, and long fingernails chipped with bloodsplatter.

Loras, being executed for the crime of kingslaying, while an unrepentant Jaime Lannister looked on with one hand on the queen mothers arse.

His mother, the stolid and decorous Lady Alerie softly weeping while her two youngest children die far from home, in the grasp of cruel lions who wear the skins of stags.

_And we chose such allies._

He was about to stride past the guards outside his father’s enormous tent, when he heard his name being called by a man on the edge of the camp. Turning, he saw the flower liveried guards holding back a man with a familiar winestain birthmark on his brow.

“Ser Garlan!” The man nearly wept when Garlan approached. “Please Ser, I must speak with someone of influence!”

_Too hungry and tired for this._

“Am I not of influence enough lad?”

The man blanched, but held out his hands as if to ward him off when he drew closer.

“Stay back Ser! Come no closer. What I tell you, must be said at a distance.”

Undaunted, Garlan came on, until the mans near hysterical plea had him brought up short.

“I said stay back you fool! Come closer, and it might be your death!”

The disrespect was staggering, and the Tyrell guards made to draw their swords. Until Garlan saw the real terror in the man’s eyes and held up a cautionary hand.

“Name?”

“Ser Lian Penrose, Ser. Nephew to Ser Courtnay Penrose, murdered castellan to Storms End.”

The guards bristled at the revelation.

“Why not with your red king, eh Stag? Fucking murdering heretics!”

Ser Lian Penrose was a man on a mission, for he ignored the jibes and began to tell his story.

As the man’s tale went on, the guards withdrew from him, and then Garlan had the man led to the outskirts of the camp, where food and water was brought, but he had to serve himself and fetch it himself.

 

                                                                                                                   *******

 

In the retelling to his father’s originally impatient council, he saw the same feelings he’d had in when the man shared it with him.

Despair. Horror. Revulsion. Terror.

It was a tale of unthinkable malice and madness that Ser Penrose brought to the Reach that morning.

Cersei Lannister had scoured the capitol for anyone who had relatives working on Dragonstone. No knights, no lords, no people of import were found.

Merely a poor fisherman whose children lived in poverty in the capitol. And occasionally got coin from their washerwoman mother who served on Dragonstone.

She took those kids, and sent him a message. He took his one little boat, ragged sail and patched wood stem and set sail to the island. It was a miracle of the seven that he made it. He delivered his message to his woman, and promptly drowned himself.

And she did the rest. Not because she was evil, not because she was greedy. But because she was a mother.

She wept as she slid the blade across Princess Shireen’s throat, but before she could take her own life, Patchface the Fool was upon her. He grabbed the shrieking woman up by her wrists, and he danced with her as the child’s lifeblood pooled beneath her pale neck.

The shrill screams called the guards into the room, and they witnessed the macabre dance, even as the large bare feet of the fool tracked the blood all over the chamber.

The poor girl did nothing to warrant her murder, but it was done.

What happened next was worse.

Stannis was assembled with all his power, readying to march when a lone ship came in, bringing the tragic news.

The poor washerwoman was bound in the hold, as was the mad fool that had danced with her over the child’s dead body. The body of the princess of Dragonstone was bought to the home of her forebears, at Storms End.

Perhaps Cersei Lannister thought that such a maneuver would distract Stannis. Leave him despondent and broken.

But the lioness was wrong.

In his grief, and his coldest rage, he decided they need only take one day to see to his daughter.

He set up a pyre on the cliffs of Storms End, facing Dragonstone, and tenderly laid his daughter in the center. Her shroud was black and gold.

At either end of the platform, he had the two who danced. The fool facing the castle, and the mother facing the sea. And with his queen and his priestess on either side, they each threw a torch.

The fool laughed, until his vocal cords burned and the sound grew wet and soppy.

The mother screamed, twisting and dancing in the fire as she never danced in life.

But the dead princess, the dead child in the middle of the blaze breathed. And when she sucked in the cool Stormlands air, she breathed out death and horror. She blew out grey scale.

Stannis Baratheon had his daughter back. The ghastly scar at her neck was gone, and she was as if she’d only slept.

A miracle of the seven, the pious would say.

But her grey scale was gone too. Burned clean away. The child would never be a great beauty, but the disfiguring scars were no more. The formerly mottled flesh was a porcelain cream now.

But where she was healed, the Stormlands were sick.

The grey swept up from Storms End, right up the kings road.

Where Stannis marched, so too did the sickness. And he did march. On the same day he got his daughter back.

He saw to the safety of his renewed family, and swore death on any who failed them.

His twenty five thousand strong army was on the move, and about four thousand of his men were infected. And yet they still marched.

The Crownlands were next in the path, and yet the way to the capitol was open. The spread of the Grey was swift, and people were in a frenzy to escape it.

The lions of the capitol were terrified, for the righteous fury of a father was a terrible thing.

And with his vanguard being led by Ser Davos of the Rainwood, commanding the four thousand infected known as the Grey Ghasts, it would only get worse.

 

 

                                                                                                                    ********

 

“Madness.”

_Unmitigated cruelty._

“Murderess.”

The silence in the tent was deafening. Nobody wanted to be the first to admit it, but the road to the iron throne was now covered in plague. The Reach itself might be at threat.

Tywin Lannister was undoubtedly on the move, in all haste to save his families claim to the iron throne. His eighteen thousand might be enough to reinforce the capitol, but he’d lose against the might of Stannis outright. The Tyrells were the Lannisters only hope.

But to commit to them now, after what they learned would be insanity.

_The Lannister woman has no humanity in her body, and Stannis has no yield in his spirit. Between the two, the realm would be a wasteland of death and depravity._

_We must withdraw. To the Reach and close the borders. All who come must be quarantined or killed. No exceptions. Abandon the Lannisters, and the hope for the throne. Lean on the Citadel to lead us through this. There is no other viable path available to us. To try and force a march through the stormlands would be to beg rebellion, from the lowest levies to the highest lords. And the riverlands are covered in direwolves. To march through there would leave our flanks exposed to be savaged._

“Father!” He shouted loudly over the panicked din of the Reach lords. “We must abandon this ambition, and close the Roseroad. It’s the only way to be sure.”

His fleshy father bristled, as he saw the dream of a Tyrell upon the throne dying in the bitter wake of Stannis Baratheon’s march.

“No, Garlan!” his father blustered as he pointed a thick finger in his direction. “I am lord here, and it is not for you to tell me what must be done. That is my right, ser!”

_Wrong father, that’s her right. You may be the lord of the reach, but even lords give way to queens._

“Be quiet you oaf, your son is right. Would you march sixty thousand men through plague ridden lands, only to propose to send them home later?” His grandmother, Olenna Tyrell, the queen of thorns starchily dressed down her son. “That’s oafish behavior, and we’ve no time for that now!”

“My lady mother.” He began, only to be swiftly cut off.

“Don’t try to pacify me with sweet tones Mace. These old bones see through that.” She hissed with a withering glare. As she turned to address the room, the din quieted. “My lords, we’ve only two options. One, we go home and close the Roseroad as my dear Garlan suggested and wait for the plague to die out. Or two, we do that but go one step further and look to the north.”

Lord Tarly looked unhappy to be addressing a lady during a counsel, but he grudgingly asked his question anyways.

“What’s to the north but the Starks and their howls, my lady?”

The tent laughed a bit at that description, even as they looked at her with expectant gazes.

“Exactly, lord Tarly.” She nearly preened under all the attention. “There’s nothing to the north but the Starks. My son wishes to have his daughter be a queen, well we know of one king in the realm who’s not plainly mad, or self-righteous, or ironborn. He was crowned by the will of the lords of the north and riverlands, and he’s a proven warrior. And most importantly, he doesn’t beat women or seek to rule over plague infested lands. We don’t know how long and how far this plague will spread, but the north doesn’t have a history of grey scale. And I’m not risking my only granddaughter in the south, when she’d likely do as well in the north. We need the direwolves right now, and they need the roses, even if they don’t know it yet.”

She stared around the room slowly after she finished, as If she could simply will the rest of the proud lords into accepting her advisement. But as she looked to them, they in turn looked to her son.

Mace Tyrell, Master of Highgarden, Lord of the Reach, and Warden of the south narrowed his eyes upon his wizened mother, even as she glared right back at him. The seconds grew long, as the silence became oppressive.

_Father normally loses these battles of the wills. But today, he’s lasted longer than he has in recent memory. The presence of his lords bolsters his resolve, but knowing my grandmother, she’ll still have her way in this._

“Let us ask her Grace the queen for her thoughts, before we commit to any path.” He ground out.

_Well played father._

                                                                                                                    *******

 

 

The queen in the Garden, Lady Margaery Tyrell was shook by the tale told her by Ser Garlan. Disgusted by the malice of Cersei Lannister, and stunned at the resolve of Stannis Baratheon. But most importantly, horrified by the swift spread of disease that turned men into monsters.

“We must shield the Reach, my Lords.” She declared imperiously. “That is the first priority. Close the roads, and look to the Citadel to lead us through this. Sword and shield help us little here.”

“We all agree your Grace.” Offered her father Lord Tyrell. “But your lady grandmother would have us also seek alliance with the Starks to the north. They yet have an unwed king.”

“The Starks?” Queried the Queen. “What can they offer us at the moment that we cannot do for ourselves?”

The lords assembled grumbled in agreement.

“A safe haven for our valuables my dear.” Came the crisp tones of her grandmother. “A place that by nature of being fights the spread of disease. We need to send a large portion of our people away, as that would only help stymie the spread of disease. Let us send them north, along with a few of our daughters to wed their sons and heirs.”

But the queen was frankly aghast at the thought.

“But grandmother, the northmen worship trees!” She nearly screeched in her agitation. “As a Tyrell of Highgarden, a granddaughter of the Hightower, surely you jest!”

But the thorny queen wasn’t having it.

“Most of our ancestors in the reach at one time worshipped trees, as you call it!” She spat. “Yes, northmen are reputed to be coarse, hairy barbarians who piss on trees in the morning and pray to them at night, but my sweet, that’s not all they are said to be. Honorable, dutiful and brave warriors.”

Garlan stepped forward at this time.

“Robb Stark didn’t seek a crown sister, yet his men forced one on him. Even those who never were ruled from on high pledged him fealty. In a realm full of men chasing the high seat, the one who earned it stands out. As well, we can’t disregard the fact that they claim the oldest royal bloodline in the realm, spanning eight thousand years.”

Lady Olenna looked at her second grandson as if she’d never seen him before, her sharp eyes bright.

“Meet him my sweet, and then decide if the stag is better than the direwolf. All I ask is that you meet him.” She pressed.

The queen looked at the room then, her pretty brow furrowed in thought before she sighed and acquiesced. “Let us go north and treat with the Starks, but only after we see to the Reaches defenses.”

Lady Olenna’s smirk was almost as cloyingly sweet as Mace Tyrell’s scowl was bitter.

_My lady grandmother always wins._

 

End


	5. A Bloody Purchase

Jon

 

The Riverlands

 

_It would be easy to love living in the south._

The open country of the south was a sight that one had to have lived apart from to truly appreciate. The bright green grass that was dewy in the early morning but soft as silk by the noon, the warm flowing rivers and streams blinding when the highest sun was reflected off their surfaces. Even the ore rich Lannister hills that crest in the distance.

_I’m not one to envy others, but I do wonder how lady Catelyn can pinch her face so effortlessly when memories of days like this are but a thought away._

Any thoughts of that woman’s chilly visage turned towards her staunchest champion, the famed knight of Riverrun, the Blackfish.

_But while the riverlands and the distant west have their land lain charms, the people of the south are a barely tolerable lot at times. And Brynden Tully would never be described as anything but a right arse._

Perhaps it wasn’t right for Jon to expect a man who simply had to look west, and see the relatively untouched lands of the Lannisters, only to be able to smell the death and ruin of the riverlands drifting on the still smoky air to be anything but unpleasant.

These were the ancestral lands of his family that were mauled by cruel lions, and the blood of the smallfolk that fell to their malice was the same riverbed mud that the Tully’s claimed flowed in their veins, just of a vastly poorer stock, of course.

“Still dreaming your grace?!” Came the mocking tones from the subject of Lord Jon Hoarfrost’s reverie. “Too much of that, and the beast will be my second in command.”

The grizzled knight was astride beside Jon, looking entirely too comfortable in his familiar grey, dented half plate aside his destrier.

Jon felt overburdened in comparison, the newly forged half plate and chain a prison of metal and straps. The heavy weight was so different from the leathers and mail he was used to practicing in from his youth, and the Nights Watch had nothing of such high quality in their armory. The inevitable moments of idleness nearly always found him checking reachable buckles, shrugging in the plate as if to finally find the weightless aspect that clearly was nonexistent.

Ghost padded alongside, between both men and as silent as his name implied, paying them no mind.

Jon felt his lip curl involuntarily, but his response was as polite as could be, reminiscent of the tones he grew up using with his lord father’s wife.

“No ser, merely thinking on the war and what toll it’s taken on the people of these lands.” But he couldn’t help adding a jab back at the man. “And northmen don’t dare sleep with their eyes open. The cold would chill them into cubes.”

The Blackfish snorted at that. “Tell that to Roose Bolton. Eyes the color of snow, the man has.”

The mention of the eerie Lord of the Dreadfort soured Jon’s mood immediately, a pail of icy water on a small banked fire.

_I only hope whatever Robb plans on doing in the north goes to plan, so he can come back and take the reins of this war firmly in hand. I can only pray that his guard is up against any threats. Threats my brother is resolved to crush under his heel._

The rapid ride from the west back into the riverlands was one that set out with tension apparent in the king, and such a contagious feeling, soon spread to his lords and men at arms.

The army of the king had left the Crag enmasse, Jon now in a position of standing among the lords, even if he wasn’t at his brothers side, as the more esteemed lords claimed that position.

But every night after camp was made and plans were reexamined and pondered over, they sat and talked. About their betrayed father and what he would do if in their position, about the absent siblings and how they hoped they were doing.

It just felt good to be with his brother again, even if he was a king.

He could still laugh to remember how Robb had pointedly tried to lead his wife in speaking on which relative of hers was fairest to look upon, and good in nature too, of course.

Too soon had they arrived back at Riverrun, and the malicious banners of the Boltons reminded Jon just why they had swept back east with such haste.

He didn’t see the pale eyed lord of the Dreadfort in the two days Robb lingered, but just seeing his banners set Jon ill at ease. Even the cold blue freeze emanating from Lady Catelyn at his presence in her childhood home was a roaring fire to the memory of Roose Bolton’s eyes falling on Jon Snow at a feast of Winterfell as a young boy, no older than Bran.

_There is no light in the man’s eyes, only nothingness._

When they first split the armies up at Riverrun, some riding north and the rest further east, all Jon could think on was his brother’s strong back, surrounded by the great lords of the north and riverlands as they set out.

_As I’m surrounded by the mustered fist of the northern kingdom, all loyal it seems to the specter my kingly brother casts._

Robb had taken a strong six thousand horse north with him, veterans of the battles of the Whispering Wood, Camps and Oxcross.

_Those men know their killing. Let Robb use them as a dagger to scoop out the eyes of Balon Greyjoy for daring to look to the north and see potential conquest._

The Blackfish had only barely three thousand horse, mostly scraped from the lesser knights the riverlords would spare from their duties of protecting their lands against further Lannister aggression. The rest was a hodgepodge of men at arms, pikemen and archers that numbered near two thousand. The archers made up nearly half that host, men that had cut their teeth in hunting the game of these green lands. The only northmen in the host were the two Norrey mountain clansmen Robb had directly placed as his sworn men, large six and a half footers, heavily bearded and muscled like a prized pair of plow horses. Alp and Pyne were brutally skilled warriors, killing in tandem as if they were one sword, the edge and the fuller together seeking blood.

_We are the first line of defense against any incursions. May the old gods help us._

“Lord Hoarfrost, do you know where we are?” The seeking tone of the Blackfish drew Jon away from his visual appraisal of their forces.

He looked around him, seeing nothing but burned grasslands, but if he squinted east, he could see a glinting sheen on the horizon.

“Well, we left Riverrun days ago and have pushed south.” He frowned here. ”If I look east I see nothing but grass, but farther east is a shine on the horizon. So that’s either a shining steel army, or a river or lake. The Blackwater Rush, I believe. Am I right ser?”

The look the Blackfish gave him was one of near respect, but also smugness.

“No _Your Grace._ That’s the Gods Eye Lake.” He chided.” If you had the vision of a hawk, to the north, you’d see a great burned out monstrosity that goes by the name Harrenhal.”

“Harrenhal.” Was all Jon breathed, as he wondered at the legendary seat.

_Legends had been made in those halls, and the fall of dynasties had begun there as well._

“My brother’s children said it the same way you do, when they were children.” Brynden Tully pursed his thin lips at this, an unwilling smile curling his lip as he undoubtedly was taken back many years. “The smallfolk say it’s cursed, befouled by the ghosts of Harren and his dead. I say it’s currently haunted by worse.”

Jon didn’t follow here.

“Ser?”

The Blackfish turned to look squarely at him now, no humor present in his craggy face now. His solemnness was worthy of a northman.

“Your brother the king is in the north, setting that to rights. While he’s absent, the awe and fear that his name inspires lessens in the south.” The grey head shook now. ”We can’t have that. Harrenhal is currently being emptied of the Lannister rearguard, left behind to make sure that nothing of note has been left behind, and cover the lion’s tail. The Mountain holds it, alongside Ser Harys Swyft, father of Lord Tywin Lannister’s good-sister. They plan on leaving to make for the capitol, joining up with Lord Tywin there. I mean to stop that.”

_He means to chase them west? We’re on the wrong side of the lake for that!_

Jon’s confusion must have shown, because the Blackfish shook his head again before continuing.

“I mean to kill him Jon. You and I.” He waved his arm at the army around them. ”With these men here we’ll kill Gregor Clegane. That should give more of our enemies cause to brown their britches.”

Jon looked down at the fine steel sword strapped to his pack, fresh from the forge of Riverrun.

He’d killed men in the week since they left Riverrun, mostly small bands of broken men wearing small tattered remnants of red and gold livery. Those men were starving and half wild, not far removed from the first one of Ramsay Snow’s stray pets that he and Ghost had happened on in their trek south. Gregor Clegane was a different beast altogether.

_I’m no craven, but the Mountain that rides is a warrior that even proven knights fear to ride against. But Robb asked it of me. And I swore to obey. No choice at all, do I truly have._

“Ser, I swore to my king to follow your commands, and learn from you.” His breath whistled through his nose now, anxiety rising up from his chest. “If you feel this to be a way to help our king, I obey as lead to.”

Brynden Tully relaxed, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Don’t worry lord Frosty, you’ll see your wife again. But this time, there’ll be time for less moaning and more storytelling in those chambers you share.”

Jon felt himself flush at this. The maids tittered at him in the mornings while they were at Riverrun; humor plainly found on their faces at the discomfort such attentions gave him.

But it was his quiet wife who he made such japes at his expense worthwhile.

The last night they spent together before he left her in Riverrun, was one he doubted he’d ever forget.

He found his wife possessed a crude sort of humor, all delivered in her breathy tones. It only served to make her rather lewd words seem even more perverse as they fell from her lips.

His wife had the pretty habit of lightly blushing as they prepared to bed down at night, but that night she was nearly a tomato in appearance as she fidgeted with her head down, wearing nothing but her small clothes.

He saw that she had trouble speaking to what troubled her, so he took her small soft hand in his and gave it a reassuring squeeze as he leaned in to kiss her warm cheek. Her breathing roughened at this, and she pushed a hand against his bare chest, plying her fingers over the muscles she found, as she found her courage.

My lord husband, I know I’m a good deal larger than most ladies, and you-“

Jon caught her hand at that, holding the one on his chest warmly, even as he raised her chin to look into her eyes.

“My lady, your form is full, but you know I find you greatly to my liking. There is no plainer truth.” He gestured to the rising testament that swelled between them.

“Then I’d like to do something my aunt teased me about ever since I gained my woman’s body.” At this, she nearly turned away, but his hand on her chin held her fast, and the slow kiss he drew from her full lips strengthened her resolve.

“My bottom is large, and my aunt told me that whoever I married, I’d better pray to the seven he not share the westermen taste for mining.”

At this, she nearly lost Jon, until he really took in her flush and nervousness, and the implication of what she was asking him nearly toppled him from the bed. But he found himself, and taking a calming breath, made to put her at ease.

“Nothing shall we do between us that would see you hurt my lady. You need not suffer this for me.”

But her hand became a strong force on his breast, as she emphatically stated her desires.

“No my lord, I desire this myself. Other things we’ve done have led me to believe that there might be a pleasure, found in this…..mining, as it’s called.”

_She really wants this. Let it be known that she was the initiator of the act._

“Then tell me, as it was told to you my lady.”

At this, she shyly pointed to a small bowl of white paste, in conspicuous on the table of her ladies items. As he gamely fetched it, no longer reserved about nudity around her, he briefly wondered if Theon had ever done such a thing in his many forays to the brothel of Wintertown.

When he turned back around, he froze at the sight that greeted him.

His shy wife was faced down on the bed, her face watching him with shining brown eyes. She was completely nude, and had stuffed a couple of pillows beneath her stomach, which in turn elevated her haunches greatly. She enticingly spread her legs as he drifted closer as if in a daze, bringing her legs up until her knees were nearly on a line with her hips. She looked almost like a frog, but never had the slimy creatures ever looked so beautiful to Jon.

He approached her head, and he saw her pupils focus as his prick drifted into reach.

“How?” Was all he could say, as pure want roughened his voice.

She pushed up on one arm, and he had to clench his teeth as he saw the way her heavy breast swayed beneath her, the dark nipple swollen and budded.

She merely smiled sweetly, even as she dipped a small hand into the bowl he’d forgotten he was even holding. He exhaled noisily when she blew her hot breath on his prick, only to sensuously coat his length in the white paste.

The conflicting feel of her hot hand, with the cold paste, and the warm air she cruelly breathed over him, had him desiring to fling the bowl aside and flip her over and screw her senseless.

_But she asked for this._

He had to restrain himself as she slowly explained her next direction to his prick, rather than him.

“You must anoint me there, and then put it to the mark.” She breathed out. The thick lips only inches from his tip nearly had him pushing his crotch forward, but he instead stepped back, her fingers reluctantly releasing his shining sword.

He gained the bed behind her, and she put her front back on the mattress, as she wiggled her ample rear enticingly. He pushed her legs up a tad more, which had the effect of spreading her cheeks and raising them higher in the air.

He dipped his shaking fingers into the paste, and then looking wide eyed into her dark crack, gently pushed his fingers inward. Her feminine gasp was music to his ears, and he soldiered on, slowly but surely coating the target, and even firmly pushing two fingers inside to make easy the road, as it were.

She groaned at this, but it halted when he rose above her, his prick swaying menacingly over her twin hills. She reached between her legs, caressing his balls, only to possessively grab his prick and put it to the entrance.

He put his weight on it, and her groan returned.

His hands clasped her shoulders, and his concern was evident as he paused in his descent.

“Shall I stop my lady?”

But she merely shook her head no, even as she strained audibly.

He looked back down at their potential joining, and saw her pink pucker flex, but better still felt it give against his prick. He slowly slid inward, down into her yielded inferno.

She yelped as he gained entrance, but that became a groan as he continued to slowly encroach. At last, he felt his sack lightly smack her sopping cunny, and he paused for a moment, just registering the difference between this and the other.

It wasn’t as moist, and the pressure didn’t completely follow his length, but around the base, her hold was so tight it was almost painful. But it was a good hurt.

He slowly pulled himself back, rubbing comforting circles on his wife’s soft back all the while, before he smoothly drove back in. She was groaning continually now, but he saw a hand at her side, squeezing and tugging on her erect nipple.

As he got comfortable in his saddle, so to speak, he noticed his wife was stubbornly wriggling back at him on his down thrusts.

They both became rougher in their fucking, him pounding her without abandon, and she was taking it with a painful glee, the sloppy smack of his balls against her cunny a testament to their pleasure in the act.

His hands became claws claiming her meaty hips, and he heard himself snarling into the hot room, the funk of their sex almost visible to the eye. The wanton dancing of her big buttocks as his prick lashed between them was obscene, but only drove him to greater heights.

Her mousy brown hair was plastered to her neck, and her head was no longer turned to the side, but looking straight ahead, tension apparent across her shoulders and neck.

He was a madman now, leaning back so he could see all of her in her passion, the only connection between them was her hips and his crotch, with his hands framing the picture of intimacy.

“Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkk!” Was all Amerei said, as she neared her finish.

He just plowed on, an insane picture of House Darry jumping into his head briefly.

He felt his sack tighten up, and just held off until he felt the warm spray of his wifes climax coat his balls. His finish was nearly shameful in the potency, a howl escaping him and most certainly the room.

He fell onto his side beside her, his prick rudely popping out, with a yelp and a wet fart from his wife.

She turned away, shamefaced, but he was too spent to care. He gathered her sweaty form against him, pulling her into the clasp of his arms, and kissing her damp brow.

She hid her face under his chin, even as his hands ran up and down the lush lines of her body.

“If such an act made men coin, I’d envy the Lannisters their wealth. Thank you, my lady”

 

                                                                                                                       ********

 

_But that was then, now was necessity. Now was battle._

“Ser, you can’t mean to try to siege Harrenhal with only five thousand. We’ve no machinery for towers or walls.” Jon mused out loud. “So you must mean to take them on the road to the capitol. How many men do they have? What portion is horse at that?”

The smile that had been threatening to split the wind burned face now bloomed, and Jon saw something of his brother in the look, just many years in the future, if the old gods were good.

His chortle was welcome now.

”The battle has been chosen, and now the details must be sorted? You’re not unlike your brother in this, Lord Frost!” He snorted as his laughter ended, and a serious mien took his face.

“Clegane has near two thousand men under his command, all horsed. Wisdom would tell most commanders to give a fourth of their power to the rear, but few have men as feared as Gregor under their hand, and Tywin Lannister appears to be content to let the man’s shadow keep his foes at bay. We’ll bring torches to that shade, and alight it until the man is revealed from the darkness. And he is a man Jon, only larger than most.”

After that, it was only deciding on the where and how of the battle, and how to best use the men they had at hand.

_As if any battle was ever so neatly done._

 

                                                                                                                             *********

 

Lady Catelyn would kill Jon with her own two hands if the Blackfish was killed in the daft madness he played at. He knew it in his very bones.

And he likely wouldn’t blame her for the attempt, as his position atop the ridged bluff watching as Brynden Tully baited the monster of the west seemed the choice of cravens. The man was nearly three score years on the earth. And he had only five hundred horsed men challenging the Mountain and his four times that to battle.

But the choice had made sense, at least this morning.

“You can barely find your balance in all that plate you’re wearing lad!” The old man had roared. “And you expect to challenge Clegane, and then ride your unsteady arse back here with enough space between you and him to even pull off this plan?”

The jab at his recent riding wasn’t welcome, but it was true. Jon wasn’t yet used to all the weight, having ridden all his life in leathers and furs. But both Robb and his uncle had insisted that a kingly look would make his mummery that more believable. So he’d donned the heavy plate to play at a stiff northern king, and the added encumbrance ensured he was at least stiff.

But Jon wouldn’t give up, not without a small assurance.

“But Ser at least take Alp and Pyne as a guard at your sides.” He entreated. “You’ve remarked upon their skills yourself, and called them as fierce fighters as any you saw before. For our king and his lady mother ser.”

“Those two were ordered to you by the king, so with you they’ll stay. I’ll be the one riding him down lad with those of my choosing, and that’s the end of it.” The man’s bright blue eyes looked exceedingly like his nieces at the moment. “And if you insist on pressing it, by adding concerns about my age, I’ll beat you senseless and then ride him down and you’ll miss the sight. Just make sure your beast plays the part we set for him and you as well. This is battle, against the monster that burned my lands and raped my people. I’ll not let your boyish ideals cost us this day. Are we clear on that milord?”

He ended it with a growl, even as he was wheeling his horse around and joining his already horsed men at the bottom of the ridge, his broad straight back the last thing Jon saw as he disappeared into the still dark morning.

Now it was a bright midday, and what made sense in the dark seemed like pure madness in the revealing day sun. Brynden and his five hundred were pounding across the rock laden meadow below towards the river, the lather of the horses clear even from Jon’s vantage point. Not far behind them was the mailed fist of Tywin Lannister’s pet monster, their sharp trumpets sounding even as they slowly but steadily gained on the rivermen. The marked foe was clearly visible, towering above the rest of his men astride a monster of a warhorse. Small wonder men quaked at his coming.

As the rivermen crossed the far copse, they turned as one, and drew their weapons.

_No doubt Clegane thinks the Blackfish ran out of road, and decided to chance a battle rather than risk fording the unpredictable currents of the Blackwater Rush. A little bit further, and then our part._

As the gap shrunk between the two forces, the Lannisters traded their trumpets for bellows and hoots, even as they swung closer to the unseen ridge where Jon and the rest of the host waited, in order to avoid the larger rocks dotting the meadow floor.

_Now it’s our part Ghost._

Ghost didn’t require a word or nudge.

The direwolf, huge now and terrible in battle, came to the ridge face, and drew in a deep breath. Jon and the rest of the silent army watched as the huge lungs took in the humid, hot air, and forced it out in a terrifying tooth baring snarl, more worthy of Grey Wind than his normally silent brother.

The ugly sound rolled down the ridge, and bolted across the meadow. The raucous Lannister soldiers were struck dumb, but their horses were hit with something else; panic.

The lathered beasts reared and screamed, sending many a man tumbling to the ground, only to be trampled in the confusion.

He heard rather than saw the enormous man roaring for order from his men, but Jon wouldn’t let that happen.

_No balking at this. Robb and I aren’t in the yard choosing great names for mock battles anymore._

“Loose!” He roared at the waiting archers. “You know what to aim for. Shoot if you want to live!”

 

At his shout, a thousand arrows went flying at the armored host below the ridge. Jon blanched at the resulting screams, even as he raised his hand again, to signify another volley to be released.

This part of the plan had seemed cruel to Jon even as the Blackfish had presented the logic of it all. Rather than aim at the best armored force in the seven kingdoms, he was to direct the archers to aim at the quality horseflesh that carried them.

_Arya can never know or she’d want to lash me. The girl is mad about horses._

When the first volley fell, he saw many a man raise their shields above the heads, only to be swiftly dumped by a mad horse, an arrow sticking out of the poor beast before it fell onto the hapless soldier. When the second hit, he heard many more anguished screams, this time the throats that produced the sounds were human, rather than equine.

But his eyes were scanning the field for the main target, the Mountain that Rides. If he rode away, this day would’ve been for naught.

He finally saw that enormous man whipping about with his brutal looking greatsword, pointing at the ridge and the enormous direwolf atop it. He was still on his horse, trying to split his men in two separate forces, one obviously intended to scale the Blackfish, and the other the ridge.

“The man who tumbles Clegane on his arse, I’ll see him knighted this day!” Jon shouted. “Be any of you worthy of the honor?!”

The only answer to his promise was the snap of a thousand bowstrings, and the peppering of the Mountains Men. When he heard the sweet sound of a harsh, bearlike roar of frustration and rage, he arose from his position on his belly and near four thousand men rose with him.

He couldn’t see Clegane now, and that could only be a good thing.

“Lord Hoarfrost, your horse.” Alp, the quieter of the two clansmen held the reins of the winter grey war horse out to Jon, fierce in his leather and chainmail, the war hammer that the Blackfish ordered the two carry strapped across his back.

Jon swung into the saddle, his annoying armor suddenly reassuringly solid, and his two sworn followed on their own steeds.

Ghost still crested the ridge, looking back at Jon expectantly, his massive paws impatiently dancing on the edge.

“With me!” Lord Jon Hoarfrost exclaimed as he drew his sword and hefted his shield. “We mounted ride for the middle, and take the head of Clegane. The foot shall play clean up, ending any foes they whose path they cross. Archers, continue to sight and take foes unawares. We take no ransoms, only heads this day!” He roared.

There were a thousand voices at his back as he plunged down the ridge path, stones skittering even as he fought to stay level on the precarious ground. His two shadows were present at his sides, hammer in hand and shields at the ready.

Alp made the first kill himself, Jon admiring as the Norrey man smoothly leaned out of the way of a deft spear thrust, even as he confidently swung his hammer and made a red pulp of the mans head.

It was as if the gods were waiting for that first bit of close bloodshed, for soon the madness of battle took over, and there was no time to watch as other men did their bloody business.

Soon it was just thrust and lean, stab and shield, swing and parry, and ride and drive. It felt like he’d fell more men by riding over them, than actually using his sword.

He saw Ghost more than the clansmen, covered in blood and gore, his white fur running to a ghoulish bloody red.

The brutal snapping of his teeth became the balance to the chaos of battle.

He used it to set a cadence of death to the foes around him, laying about with his sword swiftly, cutting a standard bearers staff in half, before he did the same to the man’s head. He smelled a cruel looking cutthroat rather than saw him, as the man stabbed at him with a short sword. He turned with the thrust, trusting the plate, and slashing the man across the temple for his trouble.

Ghost helped him off his horse with a powerful yank about his waist.

He saw a man, bearing the rooster painted shield of the Swyft’s riding at him, a bloody flail swinging in the air even as he pelted Jon with insults as he came on.

“You fucking wolfshit! You’re dead today boy, dead!” The man was skilled using the size of the horses to give himself room enough to lash at Jon, but far enough that Jon’s blade was rendered useless.

His flail was everywhere it seemed, and it was all he could do to keep his shield up, even as it was smashed to kindling in the process. On a particularly heavy swing, it punched through the oak shield, nearly crushing Jon’s wrist in the doing.

Both were heavily breathing, and Ghost was trying to get at his back, but the western knight was well seated, adroitly using the dead horses as a buffer between him and the wolf.

But the Swyft knight should’ve watched for the northmen.

The blow that Pyne landed between the man’s shoulder blades was so heavy that Jon saw the knight’s eyes water a viscous pink when it landed. The wet, broken gasp that followed was desperate and bloody, a grisly picture of what the battle had become.

Jon and his northmen drove onward leaving the dying man lurched over, still in his saddle, even as the following foot grasped at his corpse and pulled it unceremoniously from the horse.

Ghost was a red and white blur ahead of them, a gore covered symbol of the riverlands vengeance against the rapers and burners of their families and people, headed right for the small cluster of men surrounding the Mountain.

His swift passing served as a beacon for those who searched for fresh foes, the rivermen smelling blood and following Jon’s party as they surged towards Clegane.

Ser Brynden had brought his five hundred strongly into the fray, and they were surely cutting through and riding over the trapped westermen from the south, making every effort to cut off any potential escapes.

Jon had never doubted the esteem Robb placed in his uncle, and he felt glad of it this day. A man of passing fifty namedays, the Blackfish was a demon in battle, using his experience and long years of battle trusted reflexes to do what his long past youth taught him.

_War is killing, so do it well._

He was well in the thick of it, his sweat plastered grey hair the only indication that he wasn’t a young knight fallen into a battle fever.

Jon watched as the man used his gifts in ways one could only marvel at. Turn away a spear thrust here, counter an axe swing there, and take the man’s hand for the effort, only to use the sharp edge of his shield to nearly rip a man at arms nose clear from his face.

But all the marveling at the legendary knight had the negative effect of distracting Jon long enough for an arrow to find his steeds deep chest, the grey horse screaming as its legs gave, sending both horse and rider falling into the fractious chaos that was the blood slickened ground.

Jon gave a small word of thanks to the old gods of his father, as the rock laden meadow they had fought across had possibly saved his life. The grey destrier would’ve crushed his leg under its panicked mass, if it hadn’t partially broken its fall upon a boulder the size of a barrel. The dying animal had hit the rock on its neck, leaving just enough space for Jon to pull his leg out without injury, aside from the loss of air that the tumble profited.

His two sworn men had circled around him, laying about with their hammers at any who dared to close. Alp made to dismount, but Jon’s hand stopped him.

“Stay where you are!” Jon shouted at the man.

He looked ahead, where thirty feet away he saw Gregor standing among his few men, laying about brutally with his greatsword at any who ventured within range.

A brave plowman knight galloped past, his lance held true and his shield up, catching the bolts from the terrified westermen.

His target was clear and his aim true, but the monstrous man took the charge after planting his feet with a growl. The lance snapped like a wishbone on the thick plate covering the giant, and all the reward of his efforts was a grunt. The knight was lifted clear from his saddle, and slammed onto a particularly large rock just awaiting the impact. His armor was no help now, as it became a dented prison for his now dead flesh.

_That’s why the Blackfish insisted on them having the hammers. Against plate that thick, a sword is little use, but the hammers in the hands of warriors such as these clansmen would make them seem like Robert Baratheon come again. Clever man. He planned on this all along._

“You two, ride and circle behind Clegane!” He ordered.

“Fell any who try to get in your way, but get behind him, and as one, bring him down!”

His glove was bloody from the crunch of the flail, but he pointed it at them anyway. “You’re men of the northern mountains. Ice and snow, shadow cats and snow bears are your foes. Against that, the man is a small hill.”

He gestured around him now. ”Myself and the rest will drive from the front. Go!”

He frowned as the two looked at him for a second, indecision clear on both faces, before Pyne turned his horse and kicked off, Alp close behind.

He turned to look about at the anxious faces of the rivermen, as they waited on him for direction. He knew he wasn’t alone in seeing what befell the Darry knight.

_Such a fear would allow Clegane to escape, or worse, leave our men already fighting his way alone._

“The rest of you, Gregor Clegane is just there.” The same bloody hand was now directed just ahead of them.

”We are his death today. You are his end.”

Jon felt himself fuming now, as he remembered the malicious devastation they had passed to get here today. He untangled the ruin of his broken shield and threw it aside, only to grip his bloody sword with both hands.

“He owes for the lives he took. For the women he and those men he surrounds himself with raped. For the livelihoods he ruined.

Together now men, bleed with me!!” He roared as he willed his legs to move forward.

He didn’t wait to see if any followed him, all that mattered was Ghost was beside him and they were moving as one.

They plowed past bloody men fighting in the red grass, curses and gurgles punctuating each meter they covered.

He knew the moment that Clegane saw him coming, or rather saw Ghost coming. He grumbled his bestial laughter, only to tighten his grip on his ugly sword and lumber forward with the blade at the ready. But Jon had no intention of making it easy for him.

He and Ghost were of one mind, for as the giant took ground shaking steps in their direction they split off, Jon going to the left, and Ghost circling towards his right.

Clegane was a savvy warrior though, and sought to cut Jon off; reassured his plate would stymie Ghost’s usefulness. His speed up close was daunting, and his size was terrible in truth.

The greatsword was a live whip, lashing this way and that, forcing Jon to dance in between the swings, even as he kept expecting the large shadows of Alp and Pyne to come and spell relief and respite from the monster.

“You’re dead Stark!” Clegane bellowed. “I’m going to kill you, and then go to KingsLanding and fuck your sister. First with my cock, and then with my sword, see if I don’t!”

At that Jon saw red.

He slid forward, ducking below a wind whistling slash, and returned his own cruel cut, aiming right for the boulder sized face. His aim was true, but the angle was awkward and it only clanged loudly off the thick helm.

The monster laughed even as he swung out with a bear sized arm, catching Jon cleanly on the chest and knocking him to the ground. He followed Jon as he sprawled on the ground, faster than any man his size should ever be.

He was still laughing as he prepared to skewer him, only for a huge white devil to smash into him from the side. Ghost yelped in pain from the impact, but the giant cursed, even as he turned, only for a poleaxe to land heavily on his wrist and an axe cleaved into his side.

The rest of the rivermen had decided to join the fight.

They were still plainly scared, but the recklessness of a nearly green boy trying to take on the Mountain must have shamed them into action.

And action they did take. They surged forward as one, their swings and slashes proving only nuisances, but they were able to push him back, giving Jon a chance to rise to his feet.

But it didn’t last long.

The huge man continued to curse them even as he began to slaughter them.

_They were bunched too close together in their fear, and it makes his sword swings into a cacophony of a butcher at work. Where the hell are the clansmen?! Hells, I’ll take the Blackfish at this point!_

As Jon tightened his grip and prepared to rejoin the fray, he heard a welcome sound; the heavy, resounding crunch of a war hammer into plate.

The giant stumbled as he lurched from the impact, a pained groan escaping the ugly helmet. Even as he turned to face this new foe, Alp rushed forward afoot, coming from his blind side and swung low and sure. The target was the knee, and the scream that the giant gave then almost made Jon pity him.

The fight was done, but nobody told the northmen that. Pyne gave a second blow, almost lazily nonchalant as he spurred his horse forward and sent his hammer crashing into the bend in the giants arm. The way the metal gave way, and the white bone and torn flesh hung down made Jon look to Ghost, who licked his chops savagely.

The monster was weeping then, his sword abandoned for cradling his ruined arm even as he tried to turn and face the two circling men who had brought him low. It was made more difficult by the fact that he was down on one knee, the other a pulpy ruin that was leaking down his greaves.

“Ransom me, you shits!” He blubbered piteously. “Lord Tywin will see you all rich if you just heed sense and ransom me!”

Jon saw the prospects of wealth were piercing the haze of bloodlust that had enveloped the assembled host, and sought to cut it off.

“Northmen!” he called to the clansmen, who paused in their movements. “Make an end, but leave his head intact.”

“Wait, ransom-! “

The cowed horror sought to plead for mercy, but the immense impact of two simultaneous hammer blows, one on the breast, and the other betwixt the shoulders turned that into a wet cough, and a slow tumble to the ground. The ground seemed to quake at his landing, but that was in no comparison to the relieved shaking Jon was doing at the enormity of what they’d accomplished.

_We killed the Mountain._

Jon himself removed the enormous helmet from the dead man (the size of a cooks stew pot) and took his head in labored silence, before the shocked and exhausted warriors.

In the absence of Ser Brynden, he began to organize the healthy warriors into groups dedicated to searching out their wounded yet still living brothers in arms, and sorting out their fallen. The dead Lannisters were stripped off any valuables and then left in a mass grave, to be burned. Their weapons and armor was collected into any wounded free wagons, and began the journey back to camp.

A bloody success and it was just past noon.

 

                                                                                                                            *********

 

The death of Gregor Clegane, terror of the west made the day a great success. The explanation for the missing Blackfish and his five hundred halfway through the battle made it a monumental.

“That craven Harys Shit took flight on his skinny chicken legs when he saw that the Mountain was surrounded!” The Blackfish crowed around the campfire later that night. “So I took my portion of the men and rode after him. The puff chinned twit got away, but he abandoned his charge in doing so.”

At this, the older man looked around the fire with a canny look in his eye, and Jon almost had to blink at how similar to Robb it made him look in the flickering firelight. All knew at this point of the bounty the Blackfish had gained in his little excursion.

“His charge being along with the important parchments and scrolls, all the crucial hostages Tywin Lannister took at the battle of the Green Fork.”

At this the men around the fire cheered, and the crucial guests were clapped soundly on their backs and shoulders.

Harrion Karstark, Donnel Locke and Wylis Manderly were all crowded around the fire, happy to be free but grim in manner all the same.

Jon had seen Harrion few enough times over the years, but he’d been more familiar with the man’s younger brothers; brothers who were now dead, and the son who his grief in a manner that wasn’t unlike his father.

Wylis Manderly was the smallest Jon had ever seen a Manderly present as, and his appetite promised to return, given the way he eagerly eyed the cook fires.

He’d never met Ser Donnel Locke before, but he seemed a good enough sort, if grim in manner. Captivity in the castle of Harrenhal apparently had that effect on people, even doughty warriors as Ser Locke had been said to be.

“What of you, Lord Hoarfrost? You took the head of the Mountain, but to what end?” The voice of Harrion Karstark was polite, but gravelly from disuse.

_Tywin Lannister clearly didn’t keep his prisoners well._

He looked at the many tents stuffed with the wounded rivermen, and then at Ghost chewing a meaty haunch at his feet.

“I plan on sending the skull to Dorne, as a means of opening communication with the Martells on behalf of my brother the king.” The Karstark heir eyed him with new respect as he explained.

“If the Tyrells march against us, the snake at their door might mean much in our favor. The two clansmen I’ll allow to keep his bloody dog banners, though one must be sent to Kings Landing to let Tywin Lannister know we’ve put his mad dog down.”

The Blackfish merely nodded as he looked at him from across the fire, a fond sort of affection on his face in the devils light.

“You did well today Lord Hoarfrost. All our men did well.” He raised a goblet at that, and then roared into the dark night. “The riverlands are safer tonight than they’ve been in a long time! Drink men, drink!”

At all the fires around the camp, men took up their wineskins and saluted the stars, and they twinkled just a little bit brighter.

 

End


	6. Running through the Seven with my Woes

When Wolves So Will

 

 

_The smallest of men from FleaBottom, sharing the command of a king’s vanguard? My wretched crabber of a father would’ve thought me to have sipped wildfire to tell him such._

 

“Sir, the camp is nearly set, and Sir Richard has already seen to the posting of sentries.” The fresh faced squire Weht looked more eager for the upcoming battle than most of the men twice his age. “No Lannisters will be able to come upon us unawares.”

Ser Davos looked at the boy’s eager young face, nearly glowing with the obvious thoughts of the fight ahead, and all he could see were the enraged, mutinous faces of his own sons, when he ordered them to remain behind and see to the safety of the renewed princess.

He knew his younger sons that had been born to his petty nobility were proud, but the real surprise had been the mutinous stubbornness of his oldest sons.

Dale, Allard and Matthos weren’t the closest of brothers, but they shared no ill feeling between them.

The night before he began his march a fortnight past, they had been more united than he ever remembered them to be, and all in defiance of his commands.

“Father, you can’t mean to leave us here! None of us are knighted, to serve as your squires in this is our right, as your sons!” Dale, the oldest must have felt the rights of he and his siblings were being trod upon, as this impetuous anger wasn’t like him.

He must have felt so himself, for he flushed before continuing at a more reasonable volume.

“Father, ser….We are sons of the house of Seaworth. The younger four might not understand what life was like before the rebellion of King Robert, but we do.” A trace of bitterness seeped into his voice now. “We remember our mother worn tired from her endless work, and keeping us as well. We remember the men who tried her when you were absent. We remember her being true.”

Davos broke in here, his mouth dry as he remembered just what he was doing in those absences, and with whom, to his never ending guilt.

“Dale, you don’t need to champion your sweet mother to me. I know her worth lad.” He finished hoarsely.

His angry son, Matthos had enough of his brother speaking for him, for he took this chance to enter the conversation.

“Do you know our worth father?” He challenged, his brown eyes flashing. “These highborn lords, they certainly don’t, else they wouldn’t laugh at you, and us as well. Give us the chance to prove ourselves worthy of the name you chose for us and mayhap the laughter will stop. Mayhap it won’t, but it definitely won’t if we don’t try to make them still their tongues!”

Matthos ended it here, his chest rising and falling with his fervor. But Davos remained unmoved, even as pride swept his heart.

He grabbed his little luck bag, even as he saw all three pairs of eyes narrow in wroth, seeing the end coming.

He wouldn’t see his sons march into a sure death, either by sword or arrow just to satisfy their desire to prove themselves. As a father, it was his prerogative to protect those who sprung from his loins, even if they were too foolish to appreciate it.

“My proud sons, I don’t order you to remain because I don’t know your worth, but because I seek to set you to a task worthy of your loyalty. King Stannis is a proud man, the rightful king and a great commander. But most importantly, he’s a father. And to see to the safe keeping of the child of such a man, is for only the staunchest of sworn. “

Dale and Allard were looking uncertain at this point, though Matthos scoffed rudely before his brother swiftly cuffed him.

“We’ve already seen what the malice of the desperate can achieve, when left unchallenged. I’d see you oppose such as what nearly happened. And most importantly, King Stannis himself asked me to see to her safety. When I told him I included my sons in her sworn, he nodded in acceptance.”

Those eyes that had been narrowed widened in disbelief.

“You know of our king’s ways. This says much of how he trusts you. Don’t make me a liar and yourselves out to be green boys mad for glory. Do the duty set before you, and do it well.”

All three had begrudgingly submitted at this point, resolving themselves to be locked into the ancient storm lord fortress. But reasonable Allard had squeezed from him a halfway jest and promise before leaving with his siblings in tow.

“Father, if we’re not to march with you, then you must fight as fiercely as if each of us was beside you in battle. Your duty is to fight as fiercely as possible to see our king seated. Fight with our energy, our zeal and our wroth. Duty demands it.”

_The temerity of these boys!_

“Aye son, duty demands it. And I know my pledge.” He ended with a rueful smile.

 

                                                                                             *********

 

But that was then, and now, two weeks later he’d been successful in sparing his boys, while damning other children to this horrid march. His newly taken squire, a lad from the Rainwood lands, was forced to relay any messages, pack and polish his meager bit of armor and weaponry and see to his horseflesh. All while surrounded by these monstrous men of stone.

_I’ll never forget that night as long as I live. And I doubt any who were witness could._

He remembered nearly fighting with his king as they strapped that poor, half mad woman to the pyre. His fellow lords had been itching to draw their swords as he openly challenged king Stannis.

Ser Axell Florent had broken protocol and drawn his blade, only to have Ser Richard Horpe nearly take his head off when he smashed him unconscious with a clenched fist. Only to coolly return to his at ease position, even as the hands of the other lords swiftly fell from their hilts.

“Ser, I recall that you saw the message from the Lannister woman as what it was. I recall, and I commend your loyalty, to myself and my daughter.” At this, the bright eyes looked like blue flames, alight in the shadowed circle of his eyes. “But she’s dead now. And I will not release the woman who drew the blade across her neck. If you ask me to again, you’ll burn alongside her.”

The silence that followed was thick, and the hatred radiating from the highborn was palpable. But Davos Seaworth was used to being hated by such.

“Your Grace, I’d never ask you to do so. She committed the foulest of crimes, her death is necessary.” He remembered climbing down into the hold, and seeing the small, stiff form of his dead princess, bundled in the gold and black colored shroud of her family. He nearly wept then, but chose to save that until he was alone.

“I just wished to counsel you to have mercy and hang her. Her children were threatened and she felt she had no choice. You do my king. You can burn her, or be merciful and give her the noose. Either way, justice will be served.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ser Horpe’s head turn slightly in his direction, briefly slipping away from the pyre as the servants splashed pitch and catch all over it.

“Ser, I remember your words from that night, but I also heard what the lady Melisandre said. Your words came too late, but hers spoke of tonight. This night.” He bit out harshly. “You were proven damnably correct; let us hope this Red God she speaks for is the same. They both burn, and we’ll all watch.”

That was the end of the protests from his lowest knight, so Stannis nodded and watched as the two women came forward and each took a torch from a waiting man at arms.

His wife threw it down almost instantly and turned away, hacking sobs wracking her thin, sharp shoulders. The sorceress was different, looking into the flames for a long second reverently, before tossing it languorously onto the great wooden platform.

The fire was fast catching, greedily devouring the wood and oil that soaked the pyre. The fool was gagged, but his muffled singing was almost even more horrible with the crackling, snaps and kisses of the flame accompanying him. The woman on the other end was half gone to the world but as the orange monster nipped at her flesh, she found herself. Her screams were low and horrible, nearly sexual in the pleas.

He looked away, but not before he saw an awakened Ser Axell discretely fixing himself, from the ground at their feet. He saw the assembled lords and ladies turn away, some outright retching at the horrible sight, before uttering their apologies and fleeing back towards the castle. Only Stannis and Ser Richard stood firm, the king going so far as to take a step closer.

_If a man who lost his daughter can bear to look, how can I not?_

Davos Seaworth made himself look back at the blaze, only to be astonished by what he saw. The blaze was enormous at this point, but the size of the fire wasn’t the oddity, but the structure of it.

Instead of one enormous flame, it was as if the fire was banked in the middle. Where the two had been strapped, the fire burned tall and orange, twin towering spirals of orange and rust red flame burning bright against the night. But in the middle, where the body of their princess had laid, the flame was lower, but a bright, blinding white that usurped the shine of the moon. The heat of the pyre was enormous, but at the center it was deadly.

The little bit of hair that was left to their king was now plastered to his head, and great stains of sweat bloomed all over his plain gold tunic.

Davos himself felt as if his very soul was being branded by what he was witnessing. He heard his own heart beating thunderously, and looked about him to see if any who remained were undergoing the same.

Richard Horpe merely had his eyes shielded with one brawny forearm, but the other had its hand laid on his breast. King Stannis was much the same, but he didn’t bother shading his eyes. He merely clasped his heart. The queen was inconsolable, lost to her tears upon the thick grass.

Only Melisandre was unaffected, looking at the night fire with something like joy shining bright in her blood red gaze.

But then, the heartbeat picked up, and Davos realized that it wasn’t his heart that was beating, but the fire itself had a heartbeat, and the white flame in the middle was growing taller, even as the orange spires framing it slowly abated.

The fire itself seemed to cast a spell over those who remained a symphony of chirps, cracks and flickers as the white towered well above where the orange had dared to reach. The entire sea facing wall of Storms End was alight, and in the light of the blaze, all cast tall shadows. But none were taller than that of their king, who was slowly, steadily approaching the blaze.

“My king, please stand back!” The smoky tones of Ser Horpe were rough on the best of days. This night, the smoke and flame in the air made him sound like a rock bear trying to speak the tongue of men.

The loyal knight tried to grab at the king’s arm, but the fire roared as a dragon might, and his hand fell away.

_The flame itself is like a living thing, feeding itself. This isn’t normal. Some befouled magick from that woman!_

But Stannis Baratheon wouldn’t be denied. His march continued, even as the sweat stains widened with each step, until his tunic was soaked through, clinging to the wiry frame underneath.

The lady Davos would’ve named the culprit was smoothly gaining on the king, a bundle clasped in her arms.

_To see her, you’d think it was merely a stroll on the shores of Dragonstone, not a night on which fires reached the heavens, and gave deviant utterance._

Upon reaching the king, she knelt and merely offered the bundle up to him. At this, the flame seemed to take notice of the storm king, and if possible, flared up even more.

Davos had taken his luck into his hands, and kissed it in the eye of such madness, before taking his cloak and wrapping it around his face and trudging forward.

_If I can just make him see sense, and get him away from the fire. Just a bit more._

Each step was hard fought, the grass slick from the heat and mud bubbling up around his boots.

Ser Davos didn’t even try to see where he was going, merely concentrating on putting one foot ahead of the next.

The first thing that told him he’d made it was the red, dry robes of the sorceress, as she still knelt beside their king, holding the bundle up in supplication.

Closer now, and with the fire giving illumination, he saw it was the scabbard of the mummers sword she’d had forged for their king, at the start of this cursed campaign.

Her small hands were pale and cool looking, while his felt raw and cracked from the closeness of the pyre. He reached out with those painful digits, and tugged on the cloth of gold sash that his king wore.

Stannis Baratheon turned towards him, as if surprised to see him there. The blue eyes of his king were red around the rim, and swollen as if he’d wept in his approach. His face was an angry, tender red, as if he was a man who’d been left out at sea for weeks on end. He opened his mouth as if to growl something, only for his eyes to fall on the offering at his side.

Wordlessly, he grasped the hilt of the sword with one hand, while with the other he pushed against the lady’s shoulder.

Davos knew his king was a strong man, having the form of the men of his line. But Melisandre never so much as grunted in discomfort.

The sword was slow in being drawn, as if it were unwilling to leave the snug safety of the scabbard and tried to belay the action.

But out it came, and the flames dancing on its edge looked paltry in comparison to the fire that they stood in front of. The fire roared again, as if it was offended by the presence of such mummery.

The tall white spire fell, and the night went dark as it should. But it lasted only a moment, before it sprang out in a horizontal lash, a tongue of flame headed right at the trio foolish enough to stand before it. Davos threw himself at Stannis, only to be thrown aside as if a child nuisance. The other hand gripped the sword and planted it in the ground, edge first, and hilt in the air.

The next few moments were a blur to Davos, as he looked on from the ground.

He saw the unyielding form of his king holding fast against the flame, even as the tongue of fire licked up and down against the steel of the sword. The entire blade of the sword was blackening, and the grass it was plunged into was turning white.

Still his king held firm, teeth clenched against the onslaught, but firm altogether. The mad woman at his side was still kneeling, even as she babbled heresies with the whites of her eyes showing to the world.

Davos wanted to weep to see it, knowing his liege was going to be lost to the fires like his sweet daughter, but Stannis Baratheon, second son of Steffon and Cassanna refused to be lost.

“Enough!” Was all he barked, and it was so.

Whether it was directed at the flame, the sorceress, the Lannisters or the gods themselves, the fire heeded him. It exploded outward, consuming their storm king in its fury, and the moon had the rule of the night once again.

Davos gave into his tears then, and the low, keening groans of Queen Selyse were audible in the refreshingly cool night air.

“My daughter……my king……lost to me. All is lost.” She hiccupped that last bit, even as her handmaidens tried to comfort her.

Davos made to find his feet, and go to her though he knew she wouldn’t appreciate his consoling words.

Only to fall to his knees again, when the harsh tones of his king cut his intentions in half.

“Nothing is lost woman. Your king still lives, and by the will of the red god.”

The sight of the king emerging from the smoky fog that had enveloped the remains of the platform was something that would become legend, if singers were worth their coin.

Stannis Baratheon, rightful king of the seven kingdoms walked out of the smoke covered in soot, and with all the hair on the top of his head burned away. His beard was still there, but his head was as bald as an ancient at the crown.

He’d lost his cloth of gold sash, Davos thought at first, until he noticed that the king carried two things with him.

In the crook of his strong right arm, he held close the prone, small form of his daughter, bald as her father and naked, but for the golden cloth covering her in the cool air of the night. Her eyes were closed, but even from his position on the ground, Davos could see her small chest rising and falling in the patterns of the living. But no longer did her face bear the mark of the greyscale that nearly killed her as a babe.

In the other hand was the mummers sword he’d never forget his king had used to fight the flame. But where that blade had held an unsettling light, but no heat, this blade was pitch black, yet marbled throughout with white. The heat it gave off was palpable, until the king smoothly slid it into the sheath held by the still babbling red woman.

He knelt at the feet of his king, too relieved to see both living to give a care to the salty tears streaming down his face in front of others.

“My baby!” Davos could hear Selyse slapping the comforting hands away from her, as she quickly rose up and ran towards her husband and child. The sweet words she whispered to her slumbering daughter were unlike her in truth, but maybe the loss of Shireen had cracked the stone she enclosed her heart in.

Ser Horpe flicked his finger at some of the servants who stood with mouths agape at the sight in front of them, and only the loud snap awoke them from their awestruck stupors. They swiftly swept forward, blankets in hand, and while others ran towards the castle to prepare baths for the reunited royal family.

Davos looked at the red woman then, prostrate before the cooling embers of the fire, holding the sword and scabbard to her pale cheek as she muttered words that none could hear.

_Her red god did this. Curse the woman, but my king has his heir back, and a sword that looks like it has a legend before it’s been swung. She’ll use the coin she won tonight to grasp more of my kings influence._

And yet, Davos wouldn’t mind battling her in future councils, if it meant the good done this night would last.

And he meant that; until the princess coughed.

 

 

                                                                                                      *********

 

 

That cough had heralded the price the red god would require his king to pay for his returned healthy daughter.

They had set out the very next morning, king Stannis sailing with his fleet and the red woman at his side, while Ser Davos and Ser Richard held the command of the vanguard.

They hadn’t even waited for the princess to awaken, merely assigning the most loyal and trustworthy of men to protect her at all times, from any who might possibly do her harm.

None of them thinking of the harm that a little girl might do however innocently.

Her cough was a small thing, but from it, a plague of grey swept.

Servants, cooks, men at arms, knights and even a few lords had complained of a scratchy throat and itchy limbs.

Most had disregarded it, until two days into the march, a man had awoken with a patch of grey, dead flesh clear right behind his ear. Another had the same patch, only under his armpit.

At this point, Davos had suggested they send a rider back to Storms End to see if it was happening at the castle.

When an entirely different rider returned, Davos suspected it was bad. When he took off his helmet and revealed a neck that was flush with dead skin, he knew it was worse.

Several servants and a few of the garrison had come down with greyscale, the report said. They were even now marching to join the vanguard, having been promptly ejected from the castle and surrounding lands.

And that was how Ser Davos and Richard Horpe found themselves leading a vanguard of five thousand warriors, with a good portion of them having greyscale.

_At least the gods were good in not allowing it to spread as I’ve heard it does. Going by the stories, the entire host would be under the plague by now._

The word of their coming spread along the kingsroad, and what they brought with them as well, ensuring the roads were mostly clear of foes, and likely giving any who thought to challenge them second thoughts.

They passed so many peasants though, thousands who were too hungry and poor to make their ways back home. Davos nearly wept when he saw a young girl of five, with brown messy hair and brown eyes, coughing and scratching after a few days of following her whore mother who lay with the soldiers.

_We’ve brought this to them. The cough spreads, and quickly. May the Seven forgive._

The city of the king was now in sight, the jewel of the castle a bright, and Targaryen red on the hill. The flag of the false Baratheon’s hung low, absent a rousing breeze. That one noble banner hung lonely in the sea of garish red and gold lions, or blood and piss as the coarser elements were known to say.

The city was picturesque in truth, and best appreciated at a distance where the proof of the cramped living weren’t attacking the senses.

_I wonder how two days hence, the view will look. But now, we come to the battle, and truly, maybe little more than half our men are even capable of fighting._

It was something of a farce. The host around them, littered with the men who were fast running with grey. He’d seen Ser Richard bravely drilling the infected tirelessly as they sat camp, forever trying to gauge their readiness for battle. He never seemed to walk away satisfied.

Even now, the man approached, waving his eager squire away and gesturing to the small, plain commanders tent that Ser Davos stood in front of as the camp bustled with activity around them.

He waved off the small cup of wine Weht pushed at him, before scowling at the grey bannered palisades that made up the front portion of their camp.

_Where the dead men sleep._

“If some can swing swords, they do so clumsily. If others can hold shields, their grip is loose and won’t stand up to the hectic nature of battle.” At this the scarred knight ran a frustrated hand through his lank, coarse hair. “Some can thrust spears, but most are too mangled by their sickness to hold them up against a charge. The ones who aren’t lost to the pain are still driven, for they desire revenge against the woman who unleashed this curse, but all any are fit for is the first push against the walls of the capitol. Unless…”

The cunning calculation covering the face of Ser Horpe as he looked upon the sick tents where the infected made camp was discomforting in these trying times.

“Unless what ser? Have you an idea that would see the city fall to its king? Or is the use of the sick and dying as mere fodder for arrows and pitch the only path the Red God shares with his followers?” Davos asked, trying and failing to keep impatience from spilling into his tone.

At this, the cold knight looked at him, as if taking note of his mettle.

“We could send our healthy forces to soften the defenses, and even crack open the gates with the rams the carpenters are building. But rather than send fresh soldiers into the breach, we send the Greys.”

But Davos was disgusted at the thought.

_This man has the northern paleness, but his mouth has revealed him to be bloodless._

“You would have us poison the city our king means to rule? It’s more than soldiers who would pay for this ser. Women and children who never chose their king!”

He felt himself coiling with fury, at yet another highborn disregarding the worth of those who they consider lesser.

“Should they suffer for the lack of choices their poverty gives them?!”

His body shook with rage, and for the first time, Davos lamented his lack of martial ability; for every fiber in his body wanted him to physically take this man to task for such callous thoughts.

Ser Richard saw his anger, but disregarded it.

“I’d first see the king seated on his rightful throne, and until that happens, all routes to success must be considered. Calm yourself Ser Davos.” He ordered coldly. “As of now, we know Lord Tywin has invested the capitol with his army. With the strength of the gold cloaks alongside his, we’re nearly matched man to man. The only thing that can decisively turn this war is the strongest blow against the promise of Lannister gold and riches. And that is a sure death. We march with death ser. Let us throw it at our enemies.”

Ser Davos could hear the cold logic of the plan. He grew up in the capitol, so he was familiar with the people there. If they heard that a plague of greyscale might infect their taverns, shops, brothel s and homes, the Lannisters might find themselves fighting men both outside the walls and within them.

But even as the success of such a plan seemed certain, all he could think of was if he’d never been raised up by King Stannis; if he’d never braved the dangers of Shipbreaker Bay with his cargo of onions and salted fish, to relieve the agony of starvation for a highborn lordling.

_My Marya might be still in FleaBottom, dutifully awaiting my coming, while a monstrous plague consumed her and the family I’d left behind._

Ser Richard’s curt tone cut into his musings, removing any doubt from the direction of the conversation.

“Ser Davos, don’t be mistaken about your role here.” The man’s black eyes bored into his own now, flat and cold as river rock. “Our king gave me the command of this host, and assigned you as my second. As a formality I put potential maneuvers to you, as befitting a second, but I hold the command. As the king trusts your counsel, he also trusts my mind for battle. I’ve decided to use the Greys, but as a nod to your mind for the people, terms for the surrender of the city will first be sent out. Tonight, Ser Davos. If they aren’t answered by open gates the next morn, it will mean blood and flame for the faithless.”

At this he turned, taking the untouched cup of wine upon the table, and drank deeply, his eyes glaring at the city in the distance over the rim, as if such a look might force its capitulation.

Davos looked at him steadily in silence, willing some manner of mercy or humanity into the man. But Ser Richard was a rock of resolve.

Having drained the cup, he slammed it onto the table, even as he spoke again, his gaze never leaving the distant prize.

“You now know my mind in this. Prepare the terms, including the risk of sickness and best pray that the false have more sense than any of us would ever believe. For if not, the day after the next will be a bloody one. Best see to it Ser. “

Davos nearly stumbled out of the tent in his dismay, only to find himself swiftly righted by the ever present and overeager Weht. The strong hand at his back was welcome, before he remembered the import of the task at hand and he gently pushed the boy back.

“Ser, are you…-? “

Davos waved his hand, even as he peered into the lad’s eyes.

“I’m fine Weht. Just lost my footing for a step is all.”

He looked at the boy then, really took stock of him.

Plain armor of the padded jerkin type, but clean and well arranged. The sword that he was ever sharpening, well used but keen of edge. The eyes, bright and shining with visions of valor and glory looming undoubtedly.

And younger than all but two of his sons.

“Lad, I know you’re eager to come to grips with the Lannisters, but our king taught me that in some wars, the quill far outstrips the reach of the sword. Do you know your letters?”

A confused nod was his answer.

“Good then. Fetch some parchment and a quill, along with ink and come back here quick as a hare. I’ll give you the chance to scare down the old lion himself.”

He forced a smile for the boy, only to let it fall away as Weht ran for the supply wagons.

_I’ve never been a praying man, but I can only hope the seven put wisdom in the head of someone important in that city. Or else, a great many will pay for the sins of the few._

 

                                                                                                         *********

 

 

Davos had been sleeping for only a small period of time, when the night came alive with the sounds of battle. He was in the process of shaking his sleeping squire awake when Ser Richard swept into the tent, fully armored and bladed.

He took in the scene in taut silence, before rushing forward and shoving Davos aside to kick Weht awake rather than the more subdued methods Davos chose to employ.

“Awaken boy!” He barked out. “A shit of a squire you’re proving to be.”

At this mean estimation, the sleepy eyed boy slapped himself alert, even as his cheeks colored red from what Davos suspected was more than the simultaneous slap either hand landed.

He fairly flew from his pallet by the tent flap, grabbing at the padded gambeson and breeches from the neat pile he folded them in earlier that evening.

“Sorry sers.” Was all the boy mumbled as he went to garb his knight.

Davos had very little use for the heavy armor worn by the more martial knights of the realm, so it was an easy task for the boy, once his hands stopped trembling when Ser Richard and his scowl stormed from the tent.

“See to yourself lad.” The command came softly, as he slid his sword from King Stannis’s Dragonstone forge into his worn leather belt.

_All those days of uselessly wearing his full meager armor on the march had paid off, since the boy put it on as if he could do it in his sleep. The old jerkin with the patches and the hose with the mends. Let us hope it serves him well._

Weht was off as soon as he was prepared, hopefully going for the black bread and water to break their fast that Stannis had drilled into his men they should partake of before a battle.

_It was simple fare that wasn’t likely to roil a stomach under heavy movement, yet filling enough to fuel the fight._

He stepped out of his tent warily, looking about as he did so and almost kissing Ser Richard in his misstep. The haggard knight didn’t even react to the closeness, merely waiting for Davos to give ground before speaking.

“Something’s afoot with the Lannisters. Scouts have heard fighting within the walls, and clearly parts of the city burn.” At this he pointed, and while smoke was impossible to see in the night air, the glow from flames were catching all around the capitol.

Weht had chosen that moment to return with the food, and in his dumbfounded gawping at the city, had to be cuffed by Ser Richard into remembering his protocols. As the boy handed the bread and water to his ser, Horpe continued detailing his observations as the two tardy risers chewed.

“Chew quickly Ser Davos. I mean to give you charge of the heavy horse, and position you in the copse a few miles back. Should the Lannisters attempt to flee by way of the Lion Gate, harry their arses.” At this, Davos nearly spewed the warm water he’d just drunk onto his poor squire. He’d instead begun to cough, even as Ser Richard continued unabated.

“I’d have you keep the best proven archers beside you, as should you get an opportunity, take out any important Lannisters you see. Be it Tywin himself, or one of his children or grandchildren.” His eyes narrowed as if he’d rather have the pleasure himself of such grisly work. “Remember, they sought to murder the daughter of our king. And did succeed, but our lord spared the good princess. We’ll not be so merciful.”

“Ser Richard!” He rasped painfully. “I’m not a man to lead a company of nearly five hundred horsemen. I barely sit passably on the animals. You’d expect me to lead a chase on the most well provisioned army in the realm?”

The man’s eyes were on him in a flash, and their regard was terrible and brutal, but not unanticipated.

“I’d expect you to do whatever you must to see king Stannis in his rightful place. Be it chase them to the Rose Road or into the Sunset Sea!” He stated coldly. “We are knights’ ser. We serve our lords as best we can.”

He let his hand flutter dangerously near the hilt of his sword, the message clear as the moon above.

“Or king Stannis will need at least one new knight in his services. As for me, I’ll marshal the Greys and stand with them to keep them facing forward. We’ll hold the road leading to the west. If they mean to pass us, they’ll have a line of spears to charge through, and plague to bring back to their mines. You’ll be beyond us to harass any who make it by. Do your duty ser.”

 

 

                                                                                                     *********

 

 

But it wasn’t to be. When wise men prevailed and the city did break the following dawn, it broke bloody.

The Lannister armies that streamed forth from the city were vastly smaller than what was expected.

Ser Davos had a time of it, fighting his horse nearly as much as he fought the terrified men in red and gold. His squire was forever at his side, blade in hand and flashing with an unnerving lethality.

_All those early mornings watching Ser Richard as he drilled the Greys or the healthy soldiers surely paid off for the boy._

The men they were fighting were clearly exhausted, and even more terrified. Some wept, more cursed and most fought, but they nearly all died.

_Three thousand men dead in a mad rush to get home._

It took two more days before robed and covered men came forth from the city to surrender to the men of the flaming stag. It was nearly a week before sense was made of the mad dash of the scourged lions.

The coming of the Greys had sent the city into a panic.

But it was holding, by means of Lannister threats and bribes.

But when the three thousand clansmen under the employ the Imp had found out about who was outside the walls, all hell broke loose.

They cursed Stannis. They cursed Tyrion Lannister. They even cursed the Red God.

If all they did was curse, it might’ve made for a long siege for the true king.

But they went mad in a way, and began to wreak havoc.

They stole girls from the city commons, and then sought to escape back to the mountains.

When the Lannisters refused to open the gates, the clansmen went to steel.

The same arms that the lions had promised the clansmen for their efforts against Robb Stark were turned against the Lannisters. They murdered a great many red and gold soldiers in their zeal to be away, and then they turned on the city. The city watch was hard pressed to fight off so many, and they broke mightily.

When the Lannisters holding the Red keep finally bestirred themselves, they’d lost nearly seven thousand men to the Clansmen.

They opened the Dragon Gate and felt victorious to see the back of the clans.

The city however, remembered that the lions didn’t move on their behalf when the clans rampaged, and stole and raped.

A great many of their daughters lost, businesses destroyed, gold stolen. They fell on the Lannisters, and the Gold cloaks helped in the extracting the pound of flesh.

They carved a chunk out of the lion’s manpower, but Tywin Lannister didn’t go quietly.

His army slaughtered a mass of the people of Kings Landing, in an eerie mimicry of the sack from sixteen years ago.

But this time, the lions were leaving the city in disgrace and disfavor, and there’d be no gains from this debacle.

Tywin Lannister had come to the city with nearly seventeen thousand men. He’d fled it in two different directions, with only eight thousand men to muster.

The men Davos and his horsemen had slain, had been a feint to draw them off.

The five thousand remaining fled through the Gate of the Gods, with most of them being foot, but for the portion of horse surrounding the Queen and her family.

The irony was visible even to a man as simple as Ser Davos.

_They’d need the gods themselves if they decided to chance a march through the lands sworn to the Young Wolf._

Ser Richard was spitting mad at the successful escape of the fallen family.

He verbally lashed the armored march into the city, his uncharacteristically manic ranting driving the men as much as their desire for the city’s comforts, however damaged they’d undoubtedly be.

Ser Davos was too relieved at his own survival and that of his squire to try to calm the man. Plus he understood his agitation.

Their king wouldn’t be pleased at a drawn out conflict with the west, alongside the greater north.

“Clegane? Lorch?” He barked at nobody in particular. “Has nothing been seen of the man’s pets, at the least?! We slew a portion, but it means nothing if none were of import.”

The mere third of the men who had fought and survived the battles merely looked at him, too tired to offer the knight what he so clearly needed; hope of at least a swift end to part of the war.

“At least tell me if the Stark girl was part of the fleeing host. With her, the king can force her upstart brother to find his knee.”

He stopped his haranguing for a second, to let his eyes meet Davos.

“Ser Davos, you will question any nobility we find in the city on her whereabouts, before you seek your rest. All are tired, but this cannot wait.”

Davos merely nodded in acceptance, even as the sound of hooves dashing over the cobblestones sounded from behind them. The men turned in mass, hands going to their weapons, as a lone rider approached, wearing the colors of gold and black. His horse was lathered, but he drove it on tirelessly.

The man didn’t even wait to see the commanders before sharing his news.

“The king has landed!” The herald yelled. “Stannis Baratheon, king of the seven kingdoms has come into his throne!!”

Justice had arrived.

 

                                                                                                              End

 

 

Note - I apologize for the lack of updates for the past two months. Life got busy, and I was stumped. This definitely won't be a chapter I look back fondly on.

As always, thanks for reading and I appreciate the comments.


	7. And So We Rise

Robb

 

“Ahhhrgghhhhhhhhhh!!!”

The soft weeping that followed that scream was more than welcome, and Robb wouldn’t begrudge the man his sorrows. The crannog healer Greywater Watch lent to the returning northmen was hard at work, seeking to save those who had given blood and bile for the sake of protecting the north.

Moat Cailin was still flying the grey and white standard of Winterfell, and it was a welcome sight in these trying times.

_Thank the old gods for eager young fools._

It wasn’t fair for Robb to say this of a man who was greatly wounded, and whose survival was still in the hands of the gods, but it was what was in his heart.

Benfred Tallhart was a young man who Robb in his innocent youth would’ve considered a good sort, or even a friend, but after the murder of his lord father, and the betrayal by an avowed friend and brother, his old bonds were under more scrutiny, even in fond memories.

_He did well though, in this. Even if I hesitate to call him a friend, I can definitely name him a loyal vassal and ally._

_His lord father might want to have him whipped for his foolishness, but the boy might have saved our campaign. The ironborn sought to strangle the Neck with their surprise attack, and it might have worked, if not for the foolhardy glory seeking of Benfred Tallhart, heir to Torrhen’s Square._

The hundreds of bowmen Robb had left behind had been hard pressed to keep the Moat Cailin under Stark control, paying for their loyalty many times over.

The krakens had numbered two thousand strong, only a first wave of squid to secure the Neck and make more landings easier.

The tireless bowmen from White Harbor and Deepwood Motte had held their ground though, and the Reed crannogmen had supported them. Their poison arrows and darts had played havoc with the bloodthirsty raiders, and their hit and run tactics made the Ironborn wary and hesitant to rush.

_My lord father always said a Stark could count on the loyalty of Greywater Watch. He was right in this, as he was in so many other things._

Still, the efforts to hold the Moat were giving ground, slowly but surely. The ironborn commander was apparently Victarion Greyjoy, oldest brother to Balon Greyjoy and his strong axe. It was his wrath that kept the reavers pushing forward, stepping over the dead bodies of their fellows and into the sights of the bowmen. Men that were tired, and running low on arrows and morale.

That was until the foolhardy mad rush of Benfred Tallhart, and his gallantly gooseheaded Wild Hares.

They may have missed their blessings when the gods gave out wits, but they received a double portion of courage.

_Why else would a mummers company, barely past two hundred young men, boys mostly who likely only hit the quintain at best four out of ten tilts, think to stealthily slip down the coast, and then, seeing the numbers of the enemy, ride straight into their flanks, cutting down whoever was close at hand? Did they seek to meet their gods?_

They lost fifty in the first charge, to the cruel axes and blades of the ironborn, and nearly doubled that on the second, but they scattered the ironborn strongly, even if it was at great personal cost. A cost that delayed the squids long enough to allow the strong horse of Robb Stark to sweep through the ruined fort, hooves clattering loudly off of the half rotted wooden boards they’d laid down long months ago.

If the ironborn thought the Wild Hares were a rusted dagger, the king’s host was the famed hammer of Robert Baratheon, swinging with the fury of the storm. And the ironborn were the breastplate of Rhaegar Targaryen, waiting to be smashed in.

They rode right over the sea bleached warriors, battle hardened northmen and riverlords all deftly swinging, thrusting or slashing their familiar blades, flails, axes and lances.

The sight of the hated black and gold banners had the blood up of the Stark host, and the krakens paid dearly for their folly. The ironmen were proven ferocious fighters, but the lingering confusion of the prior charge, and the viciousness of this one had the hale squids fleeing, and the weary squids dying.

Robb himself took a rare pleasure in the battle, each kraken he felled being a soothing balm applied to his bitter rage as he remembered his false friend. Grey Wind mirrored his mood, his brutal snarls and snaps mixed with almost playful yelps as he ripped and tore and gorged on pirate meat. The mighty wolf was running red with kraken blood, his coming causing the pirate scum to give into the natural fear of his size and knife-like fangs. Robb’s loyal lords and retainers rode alongside him, their own faces grim in the cast of the work at hand.

He once caught a glance of Lord Bolton with his own guard a ways off, riding down cursing ironmen with an indifferent expression on his face. Robb had to fight the glare he wanted to cast on the man, and kill the temptation of riding over and seasoning his already salty sword with the blood of flayers. Instead, he doubled his efforts, imagining each man he deftly slew as Roose Bolton of the pale face and paler eyes. It wasn’t nearly cathartic enough, but it allowed him to keep his clarity in the face of doling out indiscriminate death.

The ironmen were tired and confused and didn’t in fact die well.

There was a cruel pleasure in the thought that these invaders wouldn’t find peace in the afterlife, as Theon had told him those ironborn who acquitted themselves well in battle were welcomed to the waterlogged halls of their drippy god.

_Let them be lost in the forever of death, searching these cold lands for a stream to the sea, only to find themselves on the end of a loyal Northman’s piss stream._

Soon the battle was all but done, as much as any red rout can be called a battle.

Only Victarion Greyjoy stood tall on the ridge overlooking the moat, throwing off his cloak and stepping forward towards the Stark army with a monstrous axe in one hand and the round ironborn shield held tight in the other.

“Come Stark! Taste my axe, you piteous northman whelp! ” Yelled the mad kraken.

His coarse taunts echoed loudly, and Grey Wind’s snarl sounded right back.

“Send the beast and I’ll take the pelt, come yourself and I’ll pick my teeth with your crown!” Came the mad sally.

“Your Grace, allow me!” Blustered Ser Marq Piper, his bloody long sword trembling in his mailed hand from his rage. Even Grey Wind was itching for it, his blood soaked muzzle open and snarling.

“Hold Ser Marq.” Was all he said before he motioned to the Smalljon, faithfully at his back with his war hammer and ironwood shield at the ready.

He placed a hand on the shoulder of the enormous young man, feeling the bullish fiber of the muscles underneath. As the mad kraken continued to shout out insults and goadings, he felt the man’s frame flex, as if he desired to bury his hammer in Greyjoy’s face.

“Jon, I’d have you make for the ridge, but do not engage that squidshit, understood?” He caught the amber gaze of the man, trying to impart the seriousness of his words.” I mean to allow those who held faithfully to end this farce of an invasion.”

Smalljon Umber tilted his head slightly, even as he nodded his agreement.

“Of course, your grace. As you wish.” He urged his enormous destrier forward, slowing briefly to give his fellow lords a nod as he passed.

“Lord Karstark!” He called for next.

“Your Grace.” Came the quiet response as the grey haired lord clopped forward.

“Lord Karstark, I’d have your truest commander find me the best bowman from the group that held the Moat against the ironmen. Tell them that the man who comes, is likely to earn himself a gold dragon if he does what I ask.”

The grizzled lord of the Karlhold nodded and started barking orders at his closest man, who in turn, twisted his horse around and took off for the Drunkard’s Tower.

A few minutes of waiting, suffering the bleated challenges of a daft kraken, and the man returned, accompanied by a tall, blonde archer with fingers that had been rebandaged and bled through so many times, that his fingertips appeared to be covered in mud.

The archer, whose name turned out to be Terrey, was a Deepwood man, who pressed his skills hunting throughout the Wolfswood.

“How long have you been holding the Moat, good man?” He asked gently, seeking to put the man at ease.

“I dunno, Yer Grace…At least seven months it’s been, since you first rode south, I expect.” The man stammered, his eyes not leaving the blood spattered form of Grey Wind.

“Well Terrey.” He said, clapping him on the shoulder. ”If you hit that man over there, and hit him good, you’ll be able to go home.”

At this, the rangy archer dragged his eyes away from the direwolf, and shading his gaze with his hand, he peered into the distance.

“Which one, Yer Grace?” He inquired, as he squinted against the uncharacteristically bright sun.” The loud man or the giant?”

“The bleating kraken you twig stick archer!” Came Robett Glover’s roar.

“The man on the ridge, not the northman approaching it.” Was Robb’s more controlled response. “Can you do it?”

The towheaded archer puckered his face in consternation, even as he flexed his browned bandaged fingers slowly, as if to see if they had enough grip to pull this off.

“I think so Yer Grace.” He uttered slowly. “We won’t know ‘til it’s been flown if I’m any good still, or not, I ken.”

Robb looked at the man then, really looked at him. He suspected his complexion would normally tend towards ruddy, but the dominant pallor of his cheeks was given by the purpled flesh circling his eyes. His archer’s jerkin was threadbare, and had likely seen at least three previous bearers.

And the reek that leapt off him was cutting.

_If he represents the state of the rest of the bowmen, they’re all dead on their feet. But they held. Against the brutal brother of Balon Greyjoy, he and a few hundred others held the reavers back, from the north._

“If you think you can hit him, then do so, good man.” He turned to look ahead to Smalljon, before stopping to finish the thought. “You’ve likely killed enough of them for it not to be necessary for me to tell you where to aim, correct?”

But the archer was already plucking a gray fletched arrow from his quiver, when he caught the eye of his king, and nodded. “Just so, Yer Grace.”

All eyes were on the archer, as in one smooth motion born from the hard hunting in the Wolfswood, he pulled back the string, nocked the arrow and sighted and in a peculiar moment, kissed the air as he loosed. The assembled lords and knights watched as it flew straight and true, right for the man still roaring on the ridge.

He’d been clanging his monstrous axe against his shield, his focus on the enormous young man approaching him with the war hammer on his back.

_Theon always said his oldest uncle had more battle fever than wits._

The death was instantaneous, the arrow piercing right between the cheek guards on the tentacle helmet that was the very image of Victarion Greyjoy, Captain of the Iron Fleet.

His slumping tumble down the ridge, only made his death that more ignominious, finally stopping in a mud pit.

The resulting cheers from the men was welcome, but the hand of the king clapping onto his shoulder was better still, going by the near blush the man offered up.

“Terrey, for this I’ll keep the gold dragon, but place you in a watchtower, along the western shore.” Robb in his enthusiasm squeezed the man’s arm a shade too hard, until he winced from the pressure. “Do that to any other krakens who seek to raid our shores, good master.”

The man’s eyes veritably shone in gratitude and disbelief, even as more of the high lords took the example of their king, patting him about the back and shoulders in praise.

“Lord Karstark, you’re a fierce rider and a fiercer warrior!” Robb called out to the only lord to noticeably not take part in the celebratory moment. “I give you the command for riding down the fleeing squids, and putting each to the sword. Let those who await them on their shitty islands know what happens when reavers test the north. Take the head of any ironborn, save Theon. Him, I will hang.”

The lords hooted and bellowed in agreement, some looking on enviously as lord Karstark began shouting orders for his men to muster enmasse.

The rest of the host made to take the ridge, and inspect the manner of the shot that slew the feared warrior.

When they gained the ridge, after Lord Karstark had been loosed, the assembled nobility all either gaped or pondered the likelihood of such a shot. It was the definition of a miracle.

 _Any further to the right or left, and the man would’ve lived, with only a bruise on either cheek to tell, and that too would’ve faded. But to our favor, it pierced right through his bleating mouth, taking his tongue and pushing it out the back of his throat_.

But the view that greeted them of the flat lands beyond was a horror.

A long view of death greeted the eyes of the army, and the celebratory cheers and whoops fell to the gutsy punch of the ugliness of war. Ironborn had little horse, so the broken, twisted bodies of the dead were easy to sort. Many a squid had been ridden down by the Hares, their bodies either lanced by old, rusted lances, or outright ridden over, broken by hooves and the crush of the horseflesh as the men were smashed between them. These they spared no thoughts for, but the youthful dead, mixed in with the dead of the invaders many an eye glistened.

They were surrounded by so many young faces, absent beards but for the smallest hairs on chin or cheek, gazing sightlessly at the cold grey skies. Many had died afraid, their faces locked in grimaces of terror and anguish even as they swung their old weapons at their enemy. They had dropped their plowshares and hoes, and picked up their grandfathers lances and armor, and ridden for glory and legend. The numerous dead farm horses would hurt the various farmsteads they’d ridden from. Too many old horses had died in this sortie, though they weren’t the only ancients to be felled on the field. The age of the armor covering most of the dead was apparent, and they’d be sent home with new bloodstains alongside the old.

_The man who led this sortie should be horse whipped, but I must honor him for his madness, and his dead for their sacrifice. This little did much, in truth._

“Find their leader, and have him brought before me at once!” He roared. “I would see the man who rode past boldness, and drove straight into foolhardy.”

He looked at the man to his rear, his face still somewhat grey at the grisly sight all around them.” Ser Marq, please see to the setting of camp. Sentries posted as well.”

Clearly relieved at the chance to do anything but stand in the midst of the gore, the young knight was almost boyish in his relief. “At once your grace.”

The day was won, but the trials were just beginning, it felt like.

 

                                                                         ******

When they brought Benfred Tallhart before him, he was hard pressed to see the boyhood friend in the prone form on the litter.

His remaining living Wild Hares had been the ones to carry him into the meeting tent, and their loyalty to the foolish boy was apparent in the defiant glares they threw at the lords and king who summoned their leader. The sorry lot crowded into the tent, protectively ringing the Tallhart heir, the entire assortment covered in blood and wounds, yet still they stood, though many leaned on one another or outright swayed with exhaustion.

But they were in much better condition than the heir to Torrhen’s Square.

His unconscious form was wrapped in bandages, which were all in the slow process of going from Lannister red from fresh seepage, to Reed brown from the drying.

The healer from Greywater Watch had told him of the various wounds he’d taken in his two mad charges against the ironborn flank.

He’d apparently broken his left hand on the first charge, and abandoning his shield for the second, took a vicious axe to the shoulder. He killed the axeman, but he’d been pulled down by the blow, and the squids made to dagger him for his bravery, but had only put one in his belly and another in his side before the northern host had rode over them. His remaining men had pulled him free of the path, and guarded him against any comers stubbornly.

_As they still guard him, even now. Yet I would applaud their staunchness, but only for the dangerous precedent it would set for the more rash among us._

Robb looked at the fatigued company remnant in front of him, and wished to put an end to the day’s harshness, but knew he must rule here, and well.

_If I don’t, men will think me a boy to be tested and awed by valiant but ultimately stupid deeds._

“As your leader is unable to address me and my lords, I will address you instead.” He began as he stood from the seat in front of the assembly, Grey Wind still bloody and asleep at his feet. “You left your work of bringing in the harvest, to ride the land at the behest of the son of your lord. This wasn’t right, but you obeyed those in the rule over you, and I suspect it was both misguided duty and glory that saw you in the saddle.” The sullen looks he got at that would’ve been worthy of Jon.

“I would five lash the lot of you, but for the fact that your presence here today did the north a great good. So I will reward you with coinage, and send you home. Ten silver for the living and a dragon for the dead.” The relief at that was apparent, but it wouldn’t last. “But you will take the coin of your dead to their homesteads, and place it in the hands of they that remain, alongside their armor and weapons. This was foolish, this was wrong, but it’s at an end today. Leave me and see to your hurts.”

They grabbed the litter with gentle hands, even as a few bravely glared at him before dropping their eyes to the direwolf at his feet and hurriedly left his presence.

The majority of the nobility filtered out, including the recently returned lord Karstark who seemed even more ashen at the many dead youth that were currently being placed on wagons for their return home.

“It was stupid your grace, no one doubts that. But the lads did well all the same, to my sight.” The Smalljon looked oddly thoughtful at the exit of the Hares. “And Benfred Tallhart riding down a host of ironborn reavers, with only two hundred green boys at his back?! Singers dream of such.”

Robb only grimaced at that.

“Let them croon of the Hare’s valor, my eyes see only dead northmen far from home, ill equipped for the reality of war.” Robb stated grimly, sitting back down with a huff. “My people expect me to lead them, rule them and ultimately protect them. And I haven’t. Not from the ironborn, nor from the ambitions of the cruel, and the whimsy of the foolish.”

The Smalljon, ever loyal sought to assuage his guilt.

“Your Grace, you took us south for your father, and not only swept the Lannisters from Riverrun, but also began a campaign to draw Tywin himself back west.” The huge man rumbled. ”Your people know you care. You’ve proven it many times over.”

Robb had a wish to end things here, so he turned to his ever silent squire and gestured him over.

“Yes Your Grace?” The spry man asked, hesitant to turn his back on the Umber man.

“I’d have you bring the Widow’s Watch Flint, Hornwood and Karstark commanders to me. Discretely at that, no need to alert the whole of the camp, understood?” The soft chinned man only nodded before he took off through the tent flaps, Grey Wind rustling some at the entering breeze.

“Lord Umber, can you see about finding the healer who accompanied us from Greywater? See if she has any dyes at hand.” The huge man nodded and turned to hail a servant before Robb’s words stopped him.

“Discretely Smalljon…” At this, the big man turned to look at him in confusion.

Robb whispered. “I don’t want Bolton to know.”

Still quizzical, the big man ducked beneath the flap and was gone.

With that moment of aloneness, Robb grabbed a rag and the pitcher of water Olyvar had set to the side, and began wiping the blood from the furred muzzle of his direwolf companion. Grey Wind playfully nipped at his hands, allowing the cleaning before tiring of it and taking off like a shot from the tent, eliciting a few yelps and curses as he went.

Robb took the matter at hand in thought, turning it over in his mind so as to examine all possible outcomes one last time before he put it to his lords.

_If I misstep here, I could possibly lose the goodwill of my lords in a way that I’d never recover from. The north must stand together, or we won’t stand at all_

Olyvar decided to return at that very moment with the specified commanders in tow, aside from the Smalljon. After the customary nods, they drifted over to the wine arch, and Robb had to speak up.

“No spirits yet my lords. For what we’re to discuss, heads need to be as clear as possible.”

Lord Karstark glared at him in exasperation, while skinny Lord Flint just blanched at the thought. The Hornwood commander Hemre Gate was a distant cousin to the recently dead Lord Hornwood, and he just seemed to be glad to be included.

“Water is available, if you must partake.” He amended flatly.

Olyvar set to pouring said drink into the cups offering them to the three leaders, with only the quiet Commander Gate accepting.

Smalljon lumbered into the increasingly tense atmosphere of the tent, with the small, wizened healer hiding in his shadow. Lord Karstark, ever the nuisance began the conversation.

“You’ve got us all here sire, can you tell us what this is all about now?” He rasped impatiently, his voice dangerously loud to Robb’s ears. “Lower your voice Lord Karstark, for the camp need not hear this conversation.” Was all he growled before continuing in a smoother mien.

“We’ve driven the Ironborn back into the sea, and killed their commander, except for the daughter who seeks easier prey to the north. That was the primary reason for our swift ride north.”

He paused here for a second, just to ready himself for the storm.

“This is the second. I’ve shared with all my lords present in the west the atrocities committed by Ramsay Snow of the Dreadfort.” Lord Karstark cursed, while Flint spat in distaste. Robb merely waited before continuing.

“I mean to give Lord Glover a significant portion of this host, to push northwest and take the heads of any ironborn left in the north.” Three grey haired heads and one mud brown head nodded in approval.

“The rest of us head northeast, to see to the end of lawlessness and cruelty in the north. I will share this with the entirety of my lords tomorrow in council, but tonight, I wanted those lords whose lands border those of the Flayed men to hear my thoughts first.”

He made sure to make his voice as mean as possible for this, so as to leave no confusion towards his intentions.

“Ramsay Snow is a dead man. His terrorizing of the people who look to us to protect and provide for them is a strike against the north, and a strike against me. His life is forfeit. And the man who gave him the power to do so will fall with him; that being his father, Roose Bolton.” At this, eyes widened and it seemed for a moment, like breathing stopped.

“He may choose the wall, or I will choose which sword, but either way, the days of the Boltons are done. To this end, I would have you specific lords and masters surrounding his men when we set camp from now on. But take heart in justice. Once the crimes of the flayed man are seen to, his lands will be carved up between the houses of Flint, Hornwood and Karstark. I will partially tear down the Dreadfort, and in its place will be a commerce center for the eastern portion of the north. Where once the people feared, there will they be fed.”

He turned now to the healer, who seemed woefully out of place in the tent.

“Mistress Healer, have you any dye? My maester always had various shades hidden in his robes.” He reminisced fondly.

She quickly produced a small sack of numerous colors, nearly trembling in her unease. Robb perused for a moment, before picking a light brown powder.

“Olyvar, hand us the map of the north if you will.” The lords chuckled at his swift dash for the item, but the tenseness of the room didn’t abate.

Stretching it out before them, Robb dipped his finger in the untouched water in his cup, before dabbing it into the dye and applying his finger to the map in three swift strokes.

“This is how I intend to expand your territories my lords.” He said with a look to the three commanders he named prior.

Smalljon couldn’t contain himself and eagerly broke in then.

“And will this go to the Umbers, your grace?” he asked, a thick finger pointing at a significant portion of untouched territory, just east of Long Lake and making up most of the Lonely Hills.

Robb sighed at this, seeing the clouds gather on the horizon.

“No, Smalljon. The Umbers will be given the New Gift, once I take it back from the Nights Watch.” He moved his own hand to sweep the allotted portion. “From Queens Crown to the bay of seals will be Umber land. That area you point towards will go to a son of Lord Tytos Blackwood.”

They weren’t having it. Except for Hemre, who still looked grateful to be included.

Lord Flint looked nearly apoplectic, while Smalljon looked dangerously like his father in a fit of Umber rage. But Lord Karstark handled it worst of all. His right hand fluttered near his sword hilt, even as his breath set his overlong nose hairs to dancing.

“Your grace, you promised us you’d not breed out the north with southron sentiments! Your word, you gave us who marched behind you so loyally. Hold to it!” The old prickly lord demanded in fury.

Smalljon was swiftly behind him.

“Your grace, Umber lands bordering the wall on to the north, but with a weak southron lad bolstering our backs? They’d be lost in the shadow of the giant.”

Lord Flint was the most controlled, but his displeasure was still plain on his face.

“Your grace, is the birdcloak cozening you? He can’t expect such a gift for the holding of Riverrun.” The bluster was thick in the tent. “He did as was necessary there, the duty of a vassal to his lord.”

The borderline disrespect present in the tent was palpable, and Olyvar looked perilously close to running for aid. But it wasn’t needed here.

_I trust these men, and I know they trust me. They’ll see the wisdom for themselves soon enough._

“Smalljon Umber.” Robb began softly, meeting the eye of the tallest warrior in the camp.

“In Winterfell, our maester taught my siblings and I the history of the north and its people, nobility included. My brother Jon is the scion of house Frost, reborn as Hoarfrost. Towers and even Amber may arise as well. As of now, Ser Lucas of house Blackwood is on the cusp of becoming Lord Lucas of House Lonewood; a nod to the ancient Blackwoods of the Wolfswood. That is their origin. They were a northern house, until they were driven from their ancestral lands to the south. Now, I welcome them back.” He looked each in the eye before finishing flatly. “This is my will. And say nothing of this to Lord Tytos. He knows none of it yet.”

He looked to Lord Flint then, who’d lost his redness from moments prior.

“As for the land divisions, each house represented here gains much. The Flints of Widows Watch grow by nearly a third of their present territory. They gain more grazing lands and more taxable tenants; within reason, of course. The same goes for the ever loyal house Hornwood. Their expansion is most favorable to reasonable eyes.”

Hemre couldn’t nod his enthusiasm fast enough here. Last to be looked upon was Lord Rickard Karstark, who still seemed stubbornly against the move.

“The Karstarks too gain significantly here. Land and perhaps a suitable husband for your daughter the lovely lady Alys in Lord Lucas; close at hand as well. You need not be a stranger to any potential grandchildren my lord. “

At the mention of possible grandchildren, the old lord finally softened.

“And the Blackwoods hold to the old gods still, your grace?” He queried in a much more restrained manner.

“Yes Lord Karstark, they do. Lord Blackwood was present with us in the godswood at Riverrun, after we routed the Lannisters outside the castle. His heir knelt to the weirwood as well. It stands to reason his siblings follow his example.”

Robb didn’t find it difficult to imagine that Lord Rickard had taken no notice of who was or wasn’t present before the gods that day. Losing his sons had left the man blind to nearly all but grief and vengeance.

_But this was enough for tonight, surely._

“You’ve heard my plan my lords.” He said quietly. “I expect you all to be silent on what was revealed here, until the appointed time.” He turned to look at the silent shadow to his back.

“Olyvar, you’ve looked over the numbers with me occasionally. What is the Bolton strength numbered at within this host?” He asked of his squire.

“Ahorse, perhaps around seven hundred men, your grace.” He offered quietly. “I believe his foot is at three times that amount, back in the riverlands helping to fortify the garrisons of the southernmost castles.”

“Thank you, Olyvar.” Robb nodded before turning back to the lords.

“My lords have heard the numbers. Arrange yourselves as you see fit, but I expect the Bolton banners to be ensorcelled, but discretely done. Eat with his men, jape as well but when my judgment falls on him, you best be prepared. Now leave me to my thoughts.”

The Smalljon and Hemre Gate gave swift nods and prompt exits, and Lord Flint a crooked bow before his, but Lord Karstark peered at him a moment longer with appraising eyes and the smallest hint of a grin, before giving his own nod.

“You’re a canny ruler your grace. My Alys always chattered on about you as a young girl, but I thought you too blue of eye to be a true Stark northman sort, heh.” He chuckled grimly. “I was wrong. Tonight I saw stone in your gaze; old Stark stone.”

Having said his peace, he shoved out the tent leaving just Robb and the ever quiet Olyvar. Robb was tired, exhausted after the days fighting and the evenings politicking. But he knew if his mother were here, she’d stress the importance of shoring up his own alliances, regarding his forthcoming nuptials.

With that, his eyes fell on Olyvar, who seemed needlessly determined in his rolling up of the map that had been left on the table. Whether he felt his regard or he just happened to turn at the right moment, their eyes met for a second. The older man blanched, and quickly muttered his graces as he made to dash from the tent.

“Hold Olyvar.” Robb called.

The poor man’s shoulders snapped together so tightly Robb nearly winced, expecting to hear the crack audibly.

“Your grace? “He tried out hesitantly, as he slowly turned around.

“Relax man, there’s no need for fear.” He reassured him. “Pour us each a cup of wine. I mean to pick your Frey brain for useful information.”

The gulp that statement got was absent wine, but filled with anxiety.

Nevertheless, he did as bid, before reluctantly sitting in the chair Robb gestured him to.

“Ease man, ease. I know you fear me for some reason so this will be a short matter, so be at ease.” He teased.

The squire didn’t even bother to deny his trepidation, but merely upended half his wine down his throat.

“Tell me true Olyvar. Which one of your unattached lady relatives is the most beautiful?” Robb opened up with.

Either the wine worked exceeding fast on the exceedingly skinny, or the man just wanted this over with.

“Walda, or fair Walda to be specific.” Olyvar blurted out. “There’s too many Walda’s in our family sire. Walders too.”

Robb could only agree.

“I’ve met many bearing that name in the Frey levies. Just like we Starks favor the name Brandon.” He said japing. “Only ours is spread out over eight thousand years of history, rather than one hundred. But to further the point; you say fair Walda is the prettiest, but who’s the sweetest? Who laughs the most?”

Olyvar took another sip of his wine at that, consideration plain on his face as he pondered the questions.

“Roslin sire.” He stated emphatically. “She’s the sweetest of my relatives, aside from a few aunts and nieces. But the lady who enjoys laughter the most is the one first named, fair Walda. Though her laughter is sometimes cruel and at someone else’s expense.”

He looked ashamed to admit it, though Robb couldn’t tell if it was shame to have such a relative, or shame to have revealed such to an outsider.

Robb remembered Theon then, and his many japes and jeering laughs at any who was unfortunate enough to catch his eye. It was uncomfortable to think back on his presence in those memories, oftentimes hooting right alongside the turncloak.

_But if I can see where I erred in my ways, mayhap this Walda can be turned from such unkind inclinations._

“You say this Walda is so comely, how is it she’s not been betrothed to some lord or knight as of yet?” He asked, now genuinely curious about the workings of such a large family.

Olyvar blanched a second time, and for a moment lost himself to staring at the deep red liquid waiting in the bottom of his cup. Then, he looked up slowly, uncharacteristically looking into Robb’s eyes before speaking.

“Sire, you seek to marry into my family, so I’ll speak the truth, as the oaths of kingship demands. I’m not the only one to notice the fairness of my sister.”

At this, he looked around, as if to confirm that they were alone in the tent.

When he continued, his voice was a whisper and he leaned forward, the way Sansa and Jeyne use to whenever they had some secret silliness to impart to one another.

“It’s known that my nephew Black Walder and his aunt fair Walda have been closer than familial lines would require… Lannister lines would more aptly describe their actions. These rumors persist past the two towers, and are surely a factor in her unwedded state.”

Robb recoiled in disgust at this, unable to keep the revulsion from his face even as he partially hid it behind the cup of wine he’d left untouched prior.

_I know a few times in the distant past things similar happened with the Starks of Winterfell, but that was for the reason of uniting claims for ruling. Not just laying with aunts and uncles for the sheer rutting pleasure of it! Fair Walda can stay fair, over there._

_“_ What of Roslin Olyvar? The sweet sister is excluded from his attentions?” Robb troubled to ask, fearing the worst after the previous disappointment.

At this, Olyvar came the closest Robb had ever seen the man get to fury, before he remembered who he was addressing and regained himself. His face purpled briefly before settling, and his hands clenched on the cup he was holding, until the skin around his knuckles were white with the strain.

“Roslin would never, your grace!” The man spat with indignation. “My sister is the best thing my father has ever done, and if he’s too stupidly greedy and selfish to see it, my brother Perwyn and I haven’t missed it! We’d never let a man like Black Walder sniff anywhere near her.”

Both men were silent in the face of that outburst, neither sure how to proceed without offending the other, until they were interrupted.

At that exact moment, the great hulking form of Grey Wind decided to grace the silent tent with his presence, damp fur and all. Olyvar squeaked at his sudden appearance, and lost his righteous outrage, as if the direwolf had taken offense to his strong words.

The direwolf merely chuffed at the frightened squire, before presenting itself to Robb, as if he was proud of the fact that his apparent dip in the nearby marsh water had negated his need for a thorough wash. His nose was normally the dampest thing on him, but tonight his fur was dewy and heavy. That didn’t stop him from butting his head into Robb’s side and nuzzling his free hand.

Robb, sensing that the conversation was being closed for them, sought to get a straight answer from the man.

“So that is your nomination for my Frey bride? Roslin Frey?” He demanded of the man.

His eyes stuck on the wolf, Olyvar nodded dazedly.

“She’s the best of us sire. Prettiest of my relatives after Walda, but her sweetness alone gives her a beauty that Walda can’t hope to match. She’s quiet, but has a good sense of humor and her laughter is hard fought, but worth the battle. Most of all, she deserves to be free from the Twins.”

Robb sat back in his chair, absently running his hands through the damp fur of his faithful companion as he mused over the words of his squire.

“Roslin Stark.” He uttered out loud just the once, to the taste the name and try it’s texture on his tongue.

_There’s still plenty of time for it to grow on me before we have to ride back south._

“Leave me, Olyvar.” He ordered, before adding the courtesy his parents taught him. “And thank you for the information. I’ll still make my own decision, but I will consider everything you shared with me tonight. I understand the difficulty to disclose the inner workings of family with those outside of it. It’s appreciated.”

The young man walked out of the tent, pausing only to softly say his goodnights.

“Good night, your grace. And I thank you for even taking my thoughts into your consideration.”

With that, he was gone, and Robb merely sat for several minutes, listening to the now familiar sounds of a war camp settling into the night.

Robb was rarely allowed to stop kinging long enough for his sorrows to overtake him, but this chilly autumn night, in nearly the same position he was close to a year ago when this war wasn’t yet a war, he missed his father more than ever.

They had swept south to save him and the girls, and had failed at that, to his shame and his family’s grief.

_But I got a crown for my troubles at least; a crown that’s brought me new troubles and cost me possible allies. Even those who by all accounts should be marching beside me in this war remain silent._

The lack of response from the Vale was infuriating still.

The Arryn bannermen could likely put another twenty thousand in the field, enough to push the Lannisters from the capitol and into the wild, so to speak.

_But her cravenness keeps this war going, when a stroke of boldness could possibly end it._

_One day, I will sail east, and hear from my aunt’s lips why she ignored the ties of family, this I swear._

Grey Wind nipped his fingers at that moment, drawing Robb from his dark thoughts.

“We must gain a castle, and soon heh boy?” He crooned as he tousled the silk soft ears of the massive beast.

“How else are we to keep abreast of the moving’s in the southern part of my realm? Plus, it’d be good to hear of Jon and how he fares. And if the gods shine on us, maybe even news of the girls.”

That would be greatly welcome news.

Sansa being surrounded by Lannisters was a deadly precarious position to be in, but at least they knew where she was. Arya being lost, alone on the lawless roads made him want to weep angry, futile tears that solved nothing. The only thing that would make a difference would be to defeat their enemies, and reestablish order in the greater northern kingdom.

Always the worst thing about leading a mobile force meant that there was no way of keeping up with developments to the south.

_The citadel has yet to train a raven that can find an army afield._

He slapped the side of the wolfs neck, taking comfort in the powerful muscles beneath the fur, as he rose and made to find his bed.  


                                                                               *******

 

The next few days were surprisingly refreshing, as only a northman who’s been long from home might appreciate. The riverlords however, were a rather surly lot as many had never pushed beyond their borders to the north.

They were easily distinguished from the northmen, as the former were taking to bundling themselves up to nearly comical levels in at times, futile efforts to withstand the rising cold. The great northern lords were too polite for the most part to jape at their southern counterpart’s obvious discomfort, but the common men at arms had no such restraints of couth.

There were a few good scuffles, and even one brawl between a few Mallister knights and some Bolton warriors, but that was an outlier.

Most of the riverlords were too cold in the wild elements, or just awed at the sheer scale of their surroundings to be quarrelsome.

But a few surprised him.

Robb was secretly pleased to see that Lord Blackwood and his sons were faring better than the other riverlords, looking about them at the true north with something akin to reverence.

Robb didn’t know if it was a long burning ember of northmen pride that had them eschewing heavier cloaks and welcoming the frosty elements, or true hardiness bred deep but neither mattered.

All that mattered was they held strong, and Robb could feel that his plans were rightly made.

_The Blackwoods might’ve been long in the riverlands, but the memory goes back farther than the shame of defeat. Their bones seem to remember the north, and the north remembers them._

_As I hope it remembers Benfred Tallhart in his recovery. The brave fool hasn’t regained consciousness yet, and the healer is fraying fast from the demands of the sick and dying Wild Hares, not to mention being so far from home for the first time._

Robb should’ve felt guilty for depriving the loyal Crannogmen of their main healer, but the needs of the wounded were too great to be ignored. And the healer had proven to be skilled at her craft, saving those he and his lords had thought surely lost, and easing the final pains of those even further past that point.

In the absence of Lord Glover and the portion of riders he took north, Robb and the rest of the army had turned northeast, riding hard for the lands of Hornwood. The healer, Tesea had asked if they could slow the pace for the sake of the wounded, but Robb wouldn’t relent.

They were two days out according to the still somewhat suspicious Lord Karstark when disaster struck.

When Robb woke up that dreary morning, he knew that something was afoot.

Olyvar hadn’t roused him with his fumbled ministrations of preparing for his kings rising, which inevitably always managed to disturb Grey Wind which then disturbed Robb with his chest heavy growls.

There was no banked fire being tended, the heat of which always quickly sent the tent to cloying temperatures. There was no scent of sausages roasting, or bread warming on the trenchers.

There was merely the sound of a great many horses being mounted and pressed together. A coarse southron voice bellowing orders, curses layering his commands.

When Robb drew his blade and stepped from his tent bare-chested, he narrowed his eyes at the sight of a large number of blue and grey banners riding hard back the way they came.

He looked askance at those that remained, and saw that most were just as confused as he.

Until the Smalljon found him with the answers he sought.

“Your Grace, we are betrayed! The fucking stoats have pulled their support on the basis of oath breaking royalty.” The huge lordling roared.

At this, Robb could clearly feel the incredulity on his face, as the sheer ridiculousness of the claim left him momentarily dumb.

_Oath breaking loyalty is the reason for such paltry fealty? What oaths have I not kept? The only reason why I’m even pushing so far east is because of the oaths I hold close. He will answer for this, Walder Frey will._

In the face of the uncharacteristic stupefaction, Smalljon continued his ranting, quickly going from bluster to serious threats.

“Sire, if you give me your leave, we can put eight hundred riders on them in the hour. They don’t know these lands as we do, and they can easily enough be rounded up.” His rash proposal had merit, even as Robb shook his head to the negative.

“I’d rather we be free of seven hundred men of uncertain loyalty, and number smaller for it than take such into battle.” He shook his head again, more emphatically this time. “No Lord Umber, we are well rid of them, and can deal with them justly at a later date. We continue our course east.”

The largest man in the north at present merely dropped his enormous shoulders, even as he nodded in agreement. As he made to slouch off, Robb stopped him with a question.

“Lord Umber, did they mention how I broke faith with them before they rode off?”

 

                                                                              *********

 

The telling of that reason had the assembled council just as confused as Robb imagined he looked two hours earlier, when he saw the lords of his avowed betrotheds house ride off with all their mounted strength and his squire in tow.

The Tyrells had gone to Riverrun under peaceful banners with a small portion of their power under the notion of alliance.

The northern lords were clearly mistrustful of the development.

Smalljon Umber counseled against trusting the Tyrells, using his elders past battles with the few of them present upon the Trident as proof of experience.

Lord Flint merely roared that any men so obviously proud and queerly entranced by flower petals were more likely to swallow a sword than know how to kill a man with one.

Ser Wendel Manderly simply spat at the thought of allying with a reachman.

Lord Bolton cautioned against turning their backs on the proven Freys so easily, and perhaps this misunderstanding can be resolved.

Lord Karstark had been more reserved than he’d been in the last few councils, but even he glared at the present southern lords disdainfully, even while holding his peace.

From his seat Robb could see that his riverlords were happy about the potential alliance however poorly they tried to conceal it.

He held his hand up, and the grumbling northmen and chattering riverlords quieted.

“So the Tyrells approach Riverrun to seek alliance, and the Freys abandon us? Is that it?” He asked no one in particular.

“Lord Frey is ever a man watching the winds sire.” Marq Piper began. “He clearly thinks that the Starks now smell of roses, and withdraws his support in his ire and revenge. He did the same at the Trident, my father always said.”

Lord Blackwood cut an imposing figure as he loomed in his pitch black cloak. His gravelly voice didn’t help soften his presence.

“Who’s to say the roses don’t think to land themselves a wealthy trout?” He demanded of the room. “They rode to Riverrun! Why not Lord Edmure for the Tyrell chit?”

The rest of the room scoffed with derision at that possibility.

Robb felt a moment’s guilt for not vocally disagreeing with the sentiment, even as he examined the likelihood of the match.

Lord Karstark was a shade of his former self as he put his thoughts into cruder words.

“What power would think to snatch a floppy fish, when a brutal and proven direwolf is available as an alternative, no offense to the filial relation your grace?”

The northmen chuckled as a group then, and it was now the riverlords turn to bristle as the mockery of their liege lord rankled sorely, and was made worse when the chuckles turned into hoots.

Lord Blackwood and his son had to physically restrain Ser Marq from lunging at an unremorseful Lord Karstark.

The old lord just eyed the young knight dolefully, the way an older, larger hound might eye an overeager pup. 

Robb stood at this point and slammed a hand upon the table, cursing as the papers went sailing with the force of it.

He had an overpowering desire to curse the Tyrells, the Freys, the Boltons and the Lannisters for all the troubles they had caused him. But rather than doing that, he addressed the cramped tent quarters.

“My lords, while I will not tolerate the abrading of my uncle, (he glared at Lord Karstark then) from what we know of the Tyrells it stands to reason that they have not in fact approached Riverrun seeking to wed my good and loyal uncle. And I have no sister at hand to offer to the heir of Highgarden, so sense tells us that it must be me they seek.” He stressed those descriptive terms as he steadily eyed the northern lords. “And considering the power of such a family, it is something I shall consider.”

The Smalljon looked aghast at the thought, overstepping himself in his zeal.

“But Robb, you swore you’d marry a Frey! I don’t particularly like them myself, but if you do this, you’d prove them correct.”

He turned a baleful eye on the Smalljon, even as he retook his chair at the head of the table.

Lord Bolton was more tactful, but no less on the side of the Umber lord, and more importantly, the Freys.

“Your grace, those of the blue and grey towers have marched beside us tirelessly from nearly the beginning. Should you repay their loyalty so poorly, it won’t bode well.” He finished tonelessly, as if bored with the whole situation.

Robb lifted his eyes to the man’s face, wondering at the inscrutable countenance that masked all feeling.

_Does he threaten me in full view of all my lords? He hides his nerve behind indifference, but let us see if that will last._

“My lord Bolton, had the Freys remained steadfast towards me, and come to me as their king with their fears and worries, I would’ve allayed them with my intent to keep my word.” He ground out bitterly. ”But I see no tower banners flapping. I see no Frey lord present in this council. They broke their faith with me, as they thought it in no way possible for anyone to remain true in the face of such overwhelming opportunity. Thus showing me how they would serve for, and possibly against me. As have others I thought to trust.” He stated coldly, allowing his eyes to flay lord Bolton openly as the other lords looked on in askance.

The quiet Lord of the Dreadfort merely looked back at him, indifferent and unmoved by his king’s malice.

The only sound in the tent was the drifting crackle of campfires wafting in the thin walls of the enclosure.

“Plus, I’d rather have the power of eighty thousand men in my pocket, or at least removed from the possibility of being threatened with. If the roses are in bed with us, they can’t serve the Lannisters. And there’s more news that the accursed Frey riders in the night left behind.”

He took a deep breath, audibly pulling the cold air in before stating the worse.

“Stannis Baratheon has unleashed a plague in the south in his quest for the iron throne. Grey scale sweeps the stormlands, and the Crownlands are infected as well, though not yet to the saturation of the stag lands.”

The expected raging never happened. Both sets of nobility were too shocked to even gasp, much less run rampant.

In the unexpected silence, Robb decided to hastily put their minds at ease while he had the chance.

“My uncle Ser Brynden and my brother Lord Hoarfrost are taking every step to keep the riverlands safe. They’ve closed the roads from the Crownlands and stormlands, and are taking no chances with any infected slipping through. Bowmen riders patrol the southern riverlands tirelessly.” He looked in what he hoped was a reassuring manner at the riverlords then. “They won’t be popular with the commons for a good long time, but they’re being as ruthless as need be to keep your lands and people safe.

Jonos Bracken was the first to find his tongue, and as usual he made a mess of it.

“Your Grace, we must turn around and fortify the riverlands. The fealty you took from us demands it of you!” His words were poorly structured, yet the sentiment behind them was clearly shared by his southern neighbors.

Lord Tytos merely rolled his eyes, but didn’t bother to gainsay his continual foe.

Ser Marq did nothing but plop down into his chair, and shout for wine, strong wine at that.

“Did you not hear the words the king just shared with us, horse lord?” Came the whiplash tone of the lord of Widows Watch. “They have closed the roads, and have patrols watching for any who might try to seek shelter in the burned lands of your realm. The strong hand of the king is covering his people, even from afar.”

Robb never expected to hear such plainly stated faith from the normally quiet lord Flint, but it was welcome at any rate. To not lose the momentum, he piled on.

“As your king Lord Bracken, I know what the oaths of fealty mean in both directions. You need not remind me, unless you feel my lord father was remiss in his teachings to his heir?”

The chilly wind that entered the tent at that moment was only coincidental, but it matched the faces of the northern lords at the implications of their king’s words.

The shade of Eddard Stark loomed tall in the tent, and the riverlords blanched as one in the face of it.

In more conciliatory tones, he continued.

“Again my riverlords, there is opportunity here. My maester taught my siblings and I that most plagues are begat by the closeness of bodies in relation to the sickness. It helps us that a portion of your strength is in the north, for it slows if not stops the spread of the sick. We will continue east to the Hornwood and gather men, and sweep south with a renewed host stronger than ever.”

Some clearly doubted, and Lord Blackwood was on the verge of grumbling, but it was Ser Patrek Mallister that saw the right of way.

“The king is right my lords. Let us return south soon, but not now and stronger than before while the Lannisters weaken further.” He cajoled the recalcitrant. “Lord Stannis has given us a great boon, if you can see it. The specter of Tywin Lannister loomed dangerously at the outset of this war, for his house had the best armies, and the most gold to buy uncertain loyalty. Well, our king Robb has dealt with his armies, and Stannis Baratheon has removed the luster of Lannister gold. Gold has little worth when a plague is afoot.” He finished confidently.

Robb looked at the heir of Seagard then, with eyes that saw more than a foppish southron lordling. And he suspected he wasn’t alone in his rising regard for the young man. Lord Flint peered at him with a skeptical gaze, while Lord Karstark merely nodded his agreement.

Seeing no reason not to end the meeting on such a good note, Robb merely stood, causing all his lords to rise in turn and he dismissed them with what he hoped was reassuring firmness.

He turned to ask Olyvar to begin repacking the important parchments and scrolls, only to be struck again by his absence. He cursed in the empty tent, with only the sleeping form of Grey Wind to hear it.

_That damnable fool Walder Frey should’ve hung 16 years ago for being late to the Trident. I mean to correct my grandfather’s mistake of leniency, as it’s only emboldened his willful nature, at our expense. As I must do for my father’s ancestors._

                                                                                                *********

 

When the day of reckoning came, it was uncommonly warm for the north during that time of year, to the point that even the riverlords had forgone their cloaks and let their plain tunics and gambesons suffice.

The winded Karstark scouts had said that they’d come across a heavy company of Dreadfort horse, nearly three hundred strong, riding hard for the castle Hornwood. Apparently believing themselves safe from Ironborn in this part of the north, they hadn’t bothered posting outriders to screen their movements. It would be their downfall today.

Robb knew that most of the army was in a state of confused anticipation.

His open animosity towards Lord Bolton in council had spread like wildfire through the camp, and had the effect of making the common men at arms nervous with expectation.

The soldiers were less raucous than they’d been before, and the noble lords were downright confused but for the few who knew what was afoot.

When he sent meaningful looks to the commanders of the Hornwood, Karstark, Flint and Umber portions the previous night, the Bolton riders were subtly surrounded when the army broke out the next day, under the kings orders. Lord Blackwood and his men were included as a last minute decision, though the man was not privy to what was planned.

He kept his strongest northern portions firmly before and behind the Dreadfort horse, while he pushed on with his riverlands knights and lords. He knew they were confused at the abrupt changes in the marching order, as Roose Bolton had previously held a position of elevation, until Robb enacted his planned counters.

To his credit, Lord Bolton neither questioned his king, nor sought to force his men through to a better position. He merely accepted the rather random changes, even as his men bristled with anger and unease.

When the scouts had told him just what they’d found, Robb knew his moment had finally come.

He raised his arm, and the host drew to a complete stop.

He twisted in his seat, turning to look to the middle of the long winding column of riders where his co-conspirators sat at the ready.

“My true loyal men of the north hold fast!” He roared.

As if they’d practiced it a thousand times, the commanders framing in the Dreadfort host drew their weapons and pointed them at the flayers. Their men quickly followed suit, the sound of fifteen hundred northmen, and the delayed but quickly catching up six hundred Blackwood riders doing the same.

The Bolton men cursed as they in turn made to bear arms, but in the loudest voice Robb had ever heard from the man, Roose Bolton stopped them.

“Hold you fools!” He shouted (or hissed more accurately). “He’s got us surrounded and outnumbered several times over. Lay down your arms!” He ordered.

He then looked at Robb, something like respect in his pale eyes as he waited for his king to address him.

_Let him wait. There’s a monster to kill ahead._

Robb turned back around, ignoring the astonished eyes of the riverlords as he drew his sword and hocked his shield. Settled and still resolutely gazing forward, he shouted his intent.

“If you trust my judgment and my rule, ride with me now to end a threat and terror that has bloodied the good people of these lands for too long. Ready yourselves!” He bellowed, and heard two thousand southron men draw swords, grip lances and tap shields. Grey Wind howled long and loud, and that was the signal.

His northmen held fast, holding the serpent under guard while Robb surged forward with his riverlords at his sides and Grey Wind in the front, snarling and eager for the fray.

They pounded across a windswept meadow, fording a shallow trickle of a stream, the cold water splashing their faces but it was disregarded, for the three hundred Bolton soldiers had seen them, and were now wheeling about, weapons gesturing madly at the direwolf banner flapping proudly in the air. He saw a large man in black plate with a blood red helm cruelly grab his horse’s mane and haul himself astride. His men followed his example, but some were clearly reluctant to meet the numbers arrayed against them.

As the hooves ate the ground beneath in their charge, Robb took note of the difference in the men that the bastard of the Dreadfort had amassed in his father’s name. Their armor was ragged; weapons clearly older and their horses were of a questionable quality.

The two forces met in a copse of silent oak trees, the booming smash of five hundred lances sending startled birds into flight away from the battle.

Robb knew it would be short work, as they had six times their number and were much better armed.

He heard rather than saw the mad bastard, cursing as he hacked at the steady riverlords. He saw Marq Piper push forth to meet the bastard, easily parrying his blows and giving him smart smacks at his garish helm.

The young knight was significantly smaller than Ramsay Snow, but his skill made him the clear superior of the two. The bastard was a brutal fighter, throwing his all into each strike, seeming to hold back less and less as he saw his men being cut down around him. Piper was his opposite, giving nothing away, content to rely on what Jon once called the economy of murder, the dance of a knight. Where Ramsay gave, Piper took, and what Piper took, he took heavily. And Ramsay was the sorest of losers.

“Stand still you little shit!” The maddened voice rasped through the dented helmet, even as the oaf took another overstretched swing at the knight.

“No.” Was all Ser Marq gave him and the fight continued.

Robb was keen to watch, but the thrust of an old rusted spear towards his throat had him block it with his shield, even as he thrust his sword in the direction from whence it came, grunting with satisfaction when he felt the entry into something firm, and the gurgled curse that was swiftly given.

By the time he’d turned back to the fight, most of the Dreadfort men were dead, with Ramsay down on his knees, at the feet of a rather untouched Ser Marq, bleeding from multiple cuts and cursing all around him.

He cursed his dead, he cursed his father, he cursed the Starks and he cursed the gods.

“Ser Marq. See our prisoner is chained and tied to a horse for the short ride back to camp.” Robb ordered breathlessly.

“At once your grace.” The small knight gave a jaunty bow as he turned to see it down, patting his sword in affection as he near skipped away.

The battle, if it could even be called that was so lopsided that they hadn’t lost a man, but for the one lancer that had lost control of his horse for a second and been thrown for his troubles.

He’d be fine, just bruised and more likely to keep his mount well in hand in the future.

When Ramsay was thrown before his father, Roose Bolton had the face of a man who had seen nothing at all of worth. He didn’t even look at his son, and it was clear that it was his son, once the ugly helm had been pulled off. The fleshy face was different, with its pink piggish lips and bulbous nose, but the ghostly eyes marked the filial relation.

The two pairs of those eyes looked at him with immense levels of hatred and loathing emanating from them, but Roose was able to speak placidly all the same, though the malice in his gaze was present for all to see.

Ramsay had taken to cursing at Robb so virulently that Smalljon Umber grew incensed on his king’s behalf, and struck the man the one time and the mess he made of his mouth made continued words impossible.

“What is your plan here your grace?” Roose asked almost conversationally from his cross legged seat on the ground. The northern commanders had seen to removing him from his horse and tying him up with rope and attaching it to a stake for all to see while their king rode down his bastard son.

Robb ignored the question, even as he checked the noose that Lord Karstark had thrown over a tall branch of the lone weirwood tree in the meadow where they made camp.

“Ramsay Snow, you have been accused of hunting, flaying and raping various women in these lands while the northern host was in the south. I don’t expect you to speak, so I’ll ask one of those who rode with you.” Robb said through gritted teeth, so angry with what he’d been brought by the men who searched the packs of the defeated Bolton company.

Ser Marq had been ready and thrust forward a chubby man, so foully rank and smelly he made Grey Wind sneeze with disgust.

“Speak.” Robb ordered the man, who mewled for a moment before opening his mouth.

“Forgiveness yer grace, I had no choice! Lord Bolton gave me to Ramsay as a pet when I was just a boy, for no one wanted a child who smelled as I did. As he did, so did I have to.” He blubbered out, spittle coating his lips.

Robb leaned forward now, his eyes locked onto the disgusting creature.

“So you do confess to taking part in these vile hunts and raping’s?” He demanded.

At this, the man burst into tears, the salty streams leaving paths through the grime covering his face.

“Only because he made me do it yer grace!” He wailed. “He is my master you see. Just as the Dreadfort was put under Master Ramsays control while his father marched with you, I was under his control! I never wanted any of it. I wanted to help the girls, but master Ramsay would know. He always knows!” The man wept, his smell and his story bringing looks of sheer disgust to those who stood nearby.

Robb had heard enough.

“Hang them both.” He directed to Ser Marq as his gaze fell on Ramsay Snow.

The toothless bastard struggled mightily, even as he was hauled to his feet and shoved towards the lonely tree and the noose that hung from it.

The foul fat one was weeping as a second noose was thrown over the branch, but he didn’t struggle as he was gingerly pushed towards his fate. His tears got louder, but when the rope was affixed to his neck, he stopped crying, and a look of peace fell upon his filthy face. The swift pull, and jerk and he was swinging, only releasing a queer sigh before his neck snapped.

Ramsay Snow had no such grace in his death.

The assembled nobility heard him spitting blood and saliva, as he fought to say one word over and over again.

But Roose Bolton didn’t even blink when his son was finally able to spit out a garbled word.

“Faugth.” Was all he managed before the noose had him two feet off the ground, his legs kicking and jerking.

Roose never looked his way.

The crack that signified his neck breaking and the death of the monster was eerily loud in the lonely meadow, but the work wasn’t done yet.

“Lord Bolton, as you placed the control of your men and lands in the hands of one such as that (he pointed to the swaying corpse) you yourself are responsible for his crimes.” He looked at the cold man of the east, and felt nothing but hatred and revulsion. “What say you?”

The meadow was silent for a moment, before the disfavored lord deigned to speak.

“I am innocent of this, sire.” He whispered tonelessly. “My son took control of my lands in my absence, using the known truth that I loved him too much and my men were misled in their following of him. I’m only guilty of loving one who wasn’t worthy of it.”

Robb wanted to gape at the nerve of the man, to claim to overly love the son who just died and he hadn’t even looked his way since he was dragged before him.

_But this must be done well, so as to not stir up doubt among those who watch. All must leave her speaking of justice, and not greed._

“Liar.” Was what Robb said to that. “You’re a liar Roose Bolton and I’ll tell you why. My father loved my brother Jon, as he did me. We both sat in court with him, and learned of ruling. He took time when available to teach us both warfare and swordplay in the yard. My bastard brother sat with us and took his meals, and only my mother fought it. All of this, because my father loved his bastard son. And yet, if my father and I were absent, my bastard brother who was publicly loved couldn’t esteem himself to command the men of Winterfell. And if he did, they wouldn’t have listened, because even though he was known to be loved, he wasn’t a trueborn Stark. It would take my father himself officially giving command to my brother for the men of the castle to follow him.”

He turned now to the lords and knights’ watching the trial, for it was a trial in truth.

“Are any of you so different?” He demanded. “Do your bastard sons and daughters have the rule of your castles in your absence, or must you explicitly give them the command to empower them? Who rules in your halls?!” He bellowed, his steel tone ringing across the cold grassy field.

“I do your grace.” Came the smoky tones of Lord Karstark as he knelt in the grass, his large hands grasping the sword he planted in the ground. He was only the first, until all the lords present knelt on the windswept plains of the Hornwood and Robb alone stood.

He wanted to weep, he wanted to scream but instead he grasped his sword and planted it in the ground, as he stood tall and looked at Roose Bolton, last lord of the Dreadfort.

“My lords, arise.”

As one, they rose and Robb felt for the first time that this kingdom they created in a moment of grief, rage and frustration, had a real chance of survival.

These men chose him. They trusted him. And he would make them stronger than ever, because of that faith.

_I must, for that is what a good lord does. The best lord I ever knew taught me that._

“Roose Bolton, for the crimes committed by your son Ramsay Snow, who ruled in your stead, I strip you of your title, I strip you of your castle and I strip you of your people.” Roose looked at him in disbelief and loathing, his face nearly quivering with the emotion. But Robb didn’t care.

“My father went to Bear Island for the head of Lord Jorah Mormont when he fell to the crime of slavery but he fled. You, however will not, and I take your head for the crimes of raping, flaying and the hunting of human flesh. Smalljon, fetch me a block.”

The giant Umber lord had already seen the way this was going, and had one at the ready which he swiftly placed before his king.

“Lord Karstark, if you will.” Was all Robb said, and the old grizzled lord dragged the struggling Bolton to the small wooden cusp that lay at the feet of his king. He stood it upright, and taking a deep breath, grabbed Roose Bolton by the shoulder, only to have Lord Blackwood grab the other and each placed a hand on his back and forced his head over the edge, extended over the visible roots of the bone white tree.

Robb took a breath, raising his sword high whilst staring down at the wiggling brown haired head of the lord of the storied castle.

He saw his father, betrayed by those he sought to rule beside.

He saw his sisters, in the claws of lions that had no heart but stone.

He saw his mother, red eyed and morose in her grief.

He saw Jon, walking away from his dream for the sake of family, not once but twice over.

He saw his younger brothers, alone in a huge castle, waiting for their family to come home.

He saw the people of the riverlands, starving and living in burned out hovels because great men had greater legacies to protect.

He saw the many dead and dying boys of the valiantly foolish Hares, far from home and so many still young.

He saw poor young women, raped, flayed and killed because they were common and had no one to protect them.

And at that, he saw red.

His sword flew down, and the old gods must have been with him for it was done cleanly, rather than the two hacks Robb expected; it was one smooth slice and House Bolton was no more.

The silence that followed the end of his Houses ancient enemy was the sweetest thing Robb had heard in his life.

He turned away from his men then and simply stood for a long moment on the cold windy meadow, feeling the chilly wind pulling at him, but he breathed it in, taking comfort in the stinging air filling his lungs.

Grey Wind didn’t howl as he usually did after a victory, but merely nuzzled the hand of his master and licked his bloody fingers.

He again, wanted to weep.

He wished his father was here to see him. To see what he’d done, and what he planned to do. But his father was dead, and though Robb sorely missed him, he didn’t plan on seeing him again for a very long time.

He would live, and so would his realm.

He slowly turned back to his waiting bannermen.

“Lord Blackwood, I’d have you fetch your sons.”

 

End

 


	8. WetWorks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never wrote Sansa before, so forgive my missteps.

 

When Wolves So Will

 

Chapter 8

 

Sansa

 

_They were cowardly lions after all._

The Lannisters were the picture of elegant evil, so it was only fitting that they flee the capitol city as if the light of vengeful justice was fast on their tails.

Sansa just wished they’d cut her loose and send her back to her family. She’d wanted nothing else since they broke her world in a nightmare of lies, threats and fists.

The prince she thought she loved, the king of lies.

The queen she believed so beautiful, a monster made of malice.

The knights she saw as so grand, the violent touch of titled whims.

How quickly dreams become nightmares.

After Joffrey lied and had her father killed in his gracious mercy, she’d dreamt of what it would be like to flee the capitol, swift as any homesick wolf and headed for her den.

_How could I have ever thought it a dreary place?_

_The walls were the plainest of grey, but those plain grey stones were so strong, and they shielded us .We were safe there, and protected from the evils of the world, until we let the world in, and it tore us all apart._

Now Sansa found herself riding hard again, only this time rather than being safe in the center of a slow moving column of men she’d grown up knowing from Winterfell with her lord father always in sight, she was trapped in a swiftly moving tide of red and gold, with the ugly Lannister banners drooping where the Stark direwolf proudly flapped in her memory.

Her memory of the initial journey south was pleasant, aside from that horrible business with the prince and the butcher’s boy. When she thought back to that day, she wondered how she couldn’t have seen what even her little sister was able to see about the royal family; how cruel and vicious they were and their great propensity for lying to any who would listen.

_I had thought that perhaps I hated father for what he’d done to Lady, when I did it myself. I lied, and she paid the price. And then I went on to blame everyone else but the ones who really were at fault._

She knew it could have only been many months, barely even a year and a half yet since they first arrived in the capitol, but so much had changed in the world in that time that it felt almost unfair for it all to have happened so fast.

_Is this what father felt like when he rode home from the rebellion? His brother and father both dead together, along with his little sister? Was he as lost as I am now?_

Just thinking about her poor betrayed father and her missing sister made her want to weep, but she wouldn’t.

Not while she held her father’s sword.

She’d been so despondent of her circumstances that at first she wasn’t aware of what they placed over her shoulders, until it was time to stop riding and she nearly toppled from the horse, to the meanly mocking laughter of the soldiers around them.

Only Ser Marbrand had rebuked the ill humor, and asked after her well-being.

“Careful my lady…” He chided softly. “If anything were to happen to you or the sword you carry, Lord Tywin would tie my noose himself.”

At that she looked down and seeing what she did, nearly collapsed, but for the quicker hands of Ser Marbrand catching her upper arms.

He merely tucked her shoulders under his arm, and led her through the camp to the tent that was being erected for her.

Her new maid was waiting without, looking at the night sky and the slowly rising campfires flickering into existence with a milkmaids wonder.

Ser Addam had little patience for her gawping however, and his coming startled her into action.

“Be quick about your work girl, for your mistress is tired.” He barked at her, only to lower his tone when he turned to Sansa. “Forgive my impatience my lady, but it’s plain to see you need to seek rest after a day’s hard traveling. I’ll send my squire to bring you supper when it’s prepared.”

With that he was gone, his dusty cape flapping in his wake.

Now that the only man who treated her pleasantly was gone, she took her turn looking about the camp with tired eyes, taking note that they’d placed her tent squarely in the middle of the camp, leaving her surrounded on all sides by Lannister soldiers.

She was quick to notice that while she looked at the faces of the men who likely relished the thought of killing her entire family, they too observed her, and with little kindness in the eye.

She clutched her heavy burden tighter in her arms and pushed into the slowly lighting tent, to watch as her handmaiden finished lighting the candles.

“Rasea?” She asked, for that was the girl’s name. “Can you find out where we are, while I rest?”

“Of course milady.” Was all the girl offered, as curtsied and drifted from the tent, leaving Sansa alone in the Lannister camp.

She was sleepy to her bones and nearly fell into a deep slumber as soon as she lay her head down and curled up around Ice.

It still smelled faintly of her father’s solar. Wood, leather and a soft wolf skin pelt.

She could nearly hear the crackling fire in the background, and her kind, warm father holding her close as he told her and her siblings stories from his childhood. Arya would’ve found a way to sit next to Jon, who was near Robb, who was next to Bran, while mother cradled a sleeping Rickon close. Ice would be leaning against the chair her father sat in, and her brothers eyes would’ve been glued to it. And it would’ve been perfect.

_Arya would’ve loved to hold Ice, but she’s not here for me to give it to her._

And then Sansa Stark cried herself to sleep.

 

 *******

 

When she was rather rudely awakened by her handmaid Rasea, Sansa wanted to curse like Arya when she saw that it was still dark outside.

“Milady, please.” Was all she heard in the dim tent as the soft hand of her maid retreated from her arm.

Still half asleep, Sansa merely waved her away even as her mind remembered Ser Adam’s promise to send his squire with food. Patting the enormous sword of her father for reassurance, Sansa arose sleepily even as she began giving instructions to the unreasonably high strung maid.

“Rasea, have him place it on the table there and then give him my thanks, both for him and his master.” She grumbled. “Then pour us each a cup of water and tell me what you found out while I was resting.”

At this, the maid only seemed to get even more agitated, going from anxious to fretful as she stammered out an explanation.

“Mi-milady, I apologize but it’s no squire without…Um, it’s him.” She whispered. “The ser milady. The handsome one.” The poor girl didn’t know whether to blush or quail at the thought of keeping such illustrious company waiting.

_Ser Adam himself has come? What game does he play when he told me otherwise earlier?_

The dumbfounded silence that revelation left the tent in must’ve grated on the knight, for he called out from beyond the flap a moment later.

“Lady Sansa, if you’d prepare yourself, I’ve changed my mind.” He called. “I think it best if you join me for supper in the large tent. I’ve come myself to escort you there.”

_Of course he changed his mind. He likely never intended to leave me in peace, just like his lying masters._

Still, it was probably for the best that she not keep the one man who made an effort to be pleasant to her waiting outside her tent, for he was likely to be embarrassed for it happening in front of his men.

“Coming ser!” She called out soon after, waiting only to let Rasea run a brush through her hair and straightening her gown before she looped her father’s sword across her body and stepped out.

The night was cool and welcoming after the stuffiness of her tent, but the camp was too alert to notice it.

When she walked past the safety of her tent, the first thing she noticed was the watchfulness of the surrounding camp. She’d half expected the men to laugh and jeer at her for taking Ice with her wherever she went, but they paid her little mind at all, in fact.

She also noticed that around half of it seemed to be missing. Of the half that remained, it was clearly on high alert.

The eyes of the knights and men at arms seemed to be constantly scanning the outer edges of the site, and most were still fully armored, rather than the relaxed atmosphere she expected a soon to be bedding down army to exhibit.

Ser Marbrand chuckled softly where his men didn’t, but she detected no malice in his humor. She merely ignored his laugh, and accepted the arm he offered to her with an upraised chin and eyes off in the distance.

The tall knight nearly hurried to the largest tent she’d seen yet, her feet eating two strides for every one of his, as they crested the hill and she turned to give Rasea the right to rest, only to find soldiers swiftly and silently breaking down her tent as the maid watched.

“Ser?” She turned to him with a questioning look, only to have him shake his head firmly and if anything, increase his speed.

Once they were inside his rather grand personal tent, she saw the shadows of soldiers outside snap into position outside, their tense stances clearly outlined by the flickering fires.

“Ahem.” The knight snorted, obviously in hopes of her taking the seat he held out for her in his ever courteous manner.

Which she did, taking the time to really look at him in the lighted tent even as her stomach rolled with hunger. He was like his men, in that he also looked as if he were preparing to fight, rather than seek a meal with a lady.

His armor gleamed in the candlelight as he sat across from her, and the burning tree of his House looked almost alive in the firelight. The chiseled lines of his face looked beautifully sad in the low light, and she could understand why the girl she had been had been so taken with knights like these. It merely took them hitting her to correct her erroneous esteem.

He seemed just as concentrated in his perusal of her, making no moves to hide his scrutiny.

She knew he saw the rumpled dress, the tangled hair and the puffy red eyes. There was also the fading but still visible bruise on her cheek, gifted from Ser Trant at the order of his good king.

There was a time that she likely would’ve refused to leave her chambers if she looked so.

It made no difference to her now, however.

_Let him see what the monsters he serves have done with a young girl, after they murdered her father._

He finally seemed to have looked his fill, and sought to break the silence, after gesturing to his silent squire and watching him leave.

“My lady Sansa, I apologize for the change in plans.” He began politely. His Lannister green eyes found hers over the table, and she saw no guile there, no artifice. “It’s just that your handmaiden was asking around, and word got to me of it. So I assumed you were behind her questions, and sought to give you the answers you seek.” He finished, watching her closely as the flap behind opened and the young man returned with hot trenchers being carried by servants.

She didn’t respond, merely looked at him expectantly as the food was placed before them.

He gave a small smile at her stubborn silence, and continued as if she wasn’t being enormously rude.

“My lady, we’re currently in the lands of your grandfather, though we are pushing hard to make it safely onto the Goldroad. Being in such hostile lands makes the men aggravated and edgy, and that is also why I felt it better to have you sup with me, and move your location in the meantime.” He poured a deep red fragrant wine into a cup and drank deeply, not bothering to offer her a cup of her own.

She picked up her fork instead.

“Surely the loyal men of the riverlands wouldn’t dare do anything but cheer the armies bearing the banners of their monarch, the Good King Joffrey?” Sansa asked in all innocence, even as she began to take small measured bites of her food.

Marbrand nearly snorted at that, splashing his armor with wine as his eyes widening, and then narrowing as he thought over her dig.

“Good king Joffrey…” he coughed around his gloved hand, even as his eyes watered and he glared at her in mock anger.

She merely continued to chew, eyes downcast towards her trencher and the good food it held.

“Amusing, lady Sansa. Very much so.” He wheezed. “You know that the people of these lands are anything but loyal to king Joffrey, and I won’t even dignify the label of the Good with a response. I understand it though. When we first came through here, I’m not proud of the actions we were directed to take by my lord. But we did as commanded. And now, the very land itself seems to hate us. Wolf packs harrying our outriders, the smallfolk fighting our foragers; we’ve made a right mess of things here, it seems.”

After that admission, the handsome knight seemed almost woebegone, until he remembered himself it seems.

“Tell me my lady, does one of your brothers have a white wolf?” He asked, studying her face for the slightest giveaway.

_A white wolf? All were grey, but for Rickon’s Shaggydog, who was black as night with a silly name._

She wasn’t going to tell him either way, merely content to continue to eat and chew until the last bite was done, when the remembrance of her bastard brother who looked like her father leapt to mind.

_But Jon is at the Wall. Ghost can’t be in the riverlands._

Ser Addam must’ve been an adept reader of faces, for he plucked her secret thoughts like a cat plucks a thread.

“Ah, there is a brother who did.” He smiled, but it was absent any goodness. “My men have been exceedingly antsy due to the various sightings of a massive white wolf on our trail, absent a pack of lesser beasts. We remember hearing of the slaughter at Oxcross, and the death of the Mountain is still very fresh in the mind. That’s why I moved your tent my lady. Closer to mine is further away from the men who might think to hurt you because of your brother’s great victories. Though I won’t begrudge your kingly brother his defeat of Ser Clegane, no matter how much it hurts the morale of the men and Lord Tywin. He was a monstrous knight, and barely a man. We are better without such associations, I think.” He finished conversationally, sipping his wine in her enduring silence.

He might have felt she was being spitefully rude in her silence, and she had been, at the start at least. But his words jogged her memory of little more than a week past.

She remembered the day that Ser Harys Swyft rode into the Red keep, half dead from his efforts. She’d been walking her chambers, when the door slammed open and Ser Blount growled that she was summoned to court.

The walk had been swift to the great hall, the faces of the courtiers changing from eager to pitying as they fell on her. When she was finally left before the great ugly throne and the boy king who sat upon it, she at last noticed the old man with the silly puff on his chin that was on his knees from exhaustion.

She didn’t recognize him or his sigil, but she knew terror when she saw it. He was plainly afraid, for the news he had to bear must’ve been dire indeed.

And if it was dire for him, it likely meant bruises for her.

“Speak.” Was all the man in the shadow of the throne said as he stepped forward into the light.

Tywin Lannister was a tall thin man, bald as an egg atop his head, but greatly whiskered on his cheeks with pale blonde hair, akin to old Ser Rodrik back in Winterfell.

“My lord, my king, it’s been a disaster of a march. We were preparing to leave that accursed castle of Harrenhal, prisoners and documents in hand, only for a strong company under the command of that devil Brynden Tully to appear and ride about the walls, taunting Ser Gregor.”

Joffrey leaned forward at this.

It was well known that though he hated all the so-called kings of Westeros, Robb Stark was his most hated rival. Any news relating to him was consumed most eagerly.

“Well, spit it out!” He demanded greedily, his green eyes bright with malice.

Ser Swyft looked to his liege lord then, awaiting further instructions.

Tywin gave a subtle nod, and Ser Harys continued in the telling.

“Well sire, Ser Clegane prepared the men, and I checked the captives and we gave chase, thinking to slay the Blackfish and remove one of the Young Wolf’s greatest commanders.” At this, cruel titters swept the room, but a cold turn of the head from the Hand and they ended. “Plus, Robb Stark had last been seen in the northern riverlands, and we expected he was headed home to stop the Ironborn invasion. It should’ve been a simple thing; we had him by four times his numbers. But it was a trap sire.”

Joffrey had stopped leaning forward, and was now staring at the man the way a cat might watch a mouse it has caught.

“Continue.” Was all the support he got from his lord.

“Sire, we followed the Blackfish on a short chase across a meadow, and we thought we had him trapped between us and the river, flowing too fast to ford. But it was then, after the Blackfish and his men had turned and drawn their weapons, that we heard what at first, sounded like a rock breaking down a cliff. We turned and looked, but it was no rock, but a monstrous white wolf. A direwolf surely, my king for I’ve never seen any wolf near that size before. It snarled again and again, so loud and cruel that the horses startled, many rearing and dropping its rider.” Harys Swyft might not be a great knight, but as a storyteller, he had few peers. “But that too was a trap. For from the ridge crest, came three swift volleys of arrows. The men held aloft shields, but they weren’t the target. The arrows were meant for the horses beneath them.”

_A white wolf? But Grey Wind Is grey!_

At this, the known Lannister sympathizers groaned in commiseration.

Lord Tywin said nothing, merely looked on, even as a small bead of sweat glistened on his brow.

“It was then that the ridge came alive with men, warriors all. And it was a young man who led them, with his rabid white wolf at his side. Ser Gregor had split our forces ably; half to catch the Blackfish and the other to meet the riders coming down the ridge, but his horse was feathered no less than fifty times before he could ride off. When he went down, the rivermen smelled blood. Everywhere we turned, the Stark banner was flapping, and the young rebel rode beneath it, killing all in his way. I knew Ser Gregor was lost then, and sought to ride here with the captives and the scrolls, but that damned Blackfish chased me to the Crownlands, and took the captives as well. It was a sore defeat, your grace.”

The man nearly wept to that last line, but Lord Tywin merely shut his eyes for a long second, only to open them and regard the man with his flat green gaze.

_Is it possible to smile inside one’s head? Is that what this happy feeling is?_

The good feeling didn’t last long, as she remembered how this court treated those who displeased it, by deed or affiliation.

The silence of the court was heavy, like the still day before a snowfall at Winterfell. Sansa could only stand there and pray that her gods remembered her.

_The last time there was bad news for the Lannisters, I was beaten and stripped, and only Lord Tyrion stopped his nephew’s whims. I can’t see Lord Tywin caring enough to do so himself._

She looked from the old knight to the boy king lounging on the throne, and felt a frisson of terror that his eyes were already on her.

When he saw her fear, he smiled, cruel ugly thing that it was, and she knew this time, he would hurt her, and his uncle wasn’t there to stop it.

“Ser Meryn, Ser Boros, discipline the lady Sansa for her brother’s treasons!” The king screeched as the crowd looked on expectantly.

The two men lumbered forward like shiny white ghouls, only to be stopped by the throat clearing of Lord Lannister.

“Lady Sansa didn’t defeat Ser Clegane, your grace.” He cautioned coldly. His eyes alit on the lowly Swyft and his goal became clear. “Ser Swyft failed in his duties, so it’s to him that the discipline should be applied.” He said balefully.

The two knights didn’t skip a beat in turning on the poor old man, and lashing him with their mailed fists even as the court looked on.

Sansa looked at the brutal beating, thankful it wasn’t her, but still she felt pity for the old knight. He tried to do his duty, but he failed in it.

_But that didn’t warrant this. My father was a great lord, and he ruled well from Winterfell. He would have never acted like this. This isn’t justice._

Court had been promptly dismissed during the correction, and the courtiers nearly fled the throne room in their haste. But Sansa had walked slowly and surely from the room, turning only to look a last time at Ser Harys as his beating continued.

When she’d looked her fill, she felt eyes on her and saw the cold regard of Tywin Lannister as he looked directly at her.

He said nothing, she said nothing and then he gave the slightest nod and she felt silently dismissed and quickly scurried back to the safety of her rooms.

As she remembered that day, it now seemed to her that perhaps both of her older brothers had found themselves in the south, making war on the Lannisters.

Ser Addam broke into her thoughts then, with his disarming confidence.

“You know, I once hoped to meet your brother on the battlefield myself.” At this confession, her eyes flew to meet the warm green of his. He smirked openly at her.

“It’s true my lady. After he defeated my boyhood friend Ser Jaime in the Whispering Woods and routed his armies surrounding Riverrun, I asked for the command from Lord Tywin. I was flatly refused, of course but I’m thinking maybe it was for the best. The way I was feeling, I would’ve rushed headlong into a snare of his making, and it might be my death that serves as a cautionary tale for overeager westermen.” He chuckled at the thought.

“Have no fear, my silent lady Stark. Your brother has proven himself a most dangerous young man. And he’s not even seen his eighteenth nameday, I believe.”

The level of respect that shone through Ser Addam’s voice was genuine, and so was the sadness that was present in his next sentence.

“I hope he has the sense to find his knees my lady. Or else, Lord Tywin will have to eventually take the head of his famed good-brother to secure a lasting peace.” The words didn’t register to Sansa at first, so she continued to chew, until they did and she could only stare.

_They wouldn’t. It was unthinkable for them to expect her to do so. He was older than her father! He had not a kind bone in his body. He wants to kill my entire family, and they expect me to marry him? Not even the Lannisters would go that far._

Ser Addam rose and came around the table then, taking a squat next to her so he could look into her face for this.

“My lady Sansa, I’m sorry but it is true. That’s the sole reason why you’ve been given the sword of your father.” His eyes looked more sea green than Lannister from this close, but his whole countenance swam as moisture gathered in her eyes.

“Lord Tywin intends to marry you, and claim that sword as a Lannister profit of war. It’s likely the only thing he’ll gain from this madness. Why do you think half the army we arrived with today is missing tonight?” He stood and paced a bit, threading his hands through his long copper locks. “Ser Kevan took a portion of our best and is making for the northernmost path to the west, trying to draw off the scent of your brother and his men. He’s a feint, to allow us to make it to safer territories so both you and the sword can make the Rock. We were twenty five hundred strong this morning when we began our day, and now I’ve only maybe a thousand under my command to see you safely to the west.”

She could see that it bothered him, the actions he’d been ordered to take.

_I can bend if it means I can go home._

“But Ser Addam, I don’t want to go to Casterly Rock. I merely want to go home Ser.” She hated herself for pleading, but she’d never been so close to freedom. “Can you understand that?”

The first words she’d said since he escorted her into this tent, and he winced to hear them.

“Lady Sansa.” He sighed to say it. “I do understand that desire. I understand a great many things about this conflict we’re in. I see why your brother has raised his banners in rebellion, and to be completely truthful, I see why his lords named him their king. I see all that, but most importantly to me, I see my duty. That’s why I do what I find unworthy of me. Because it’s not just my honor at stake, but the livelihood of my family, and the people we rule. I serve the Lannisters so that I can also better serve my people. And I will serve them in this, even though I’d rather not steal a girl away from her family. My people will suffer if I didn’t.”

_He doesn’t care. I’m just one girl against a castle full of people in his eyes, and the castle and lands of people will always win out. What is his honor against the brutality of a man who would beat down his loyal servants like Ser Swyft?_

She didn’t mean to say it, but she was so tired and sick of being pushed and used that it slipped out and she didn’t mean to say it but she did.

“I hope my brothers kill you and the monsters you serve. Joffrey, Lord Tywin, the queen, all of them.” She hissed coldly. “You’re a sorry knight serving a family of monsters. And my brothers are heroes, and heroes kill monsters.”

He stopped in his ceaseless pacing, and stared at her in incredulity, his green eyes bulging.

She flushed with anger at his astonishment, as if he should be surprised that she wasn’t content to be moved about and used against her will, as the selfish saw fit.

She didn’t know if he was going to curse her or hit her for unladylike insolence, but she’d never get the chance to find out.

A loud, ugly snarl pierced the cool night, and in the seconds to follow she heard the camp roar to life outside the tent. Horses screamed, men shouted and all of a sudden, the ground itself seemed to shake itself awake.

Inside, the knight stumbled back as if she was the wolf and it would’ve been comical if his blade hadn’t hissed from the scabbard like a silver snake.

“I see your brother would rather I not be present with a gift for the wedding.” He japed with little mirth, sadness clear in his face.

His squire chose that moment to come running into the tent, gasping for breath even as he thrust his master’s shield into his arms. But the shield wasn’t the only thing he brought.

“Starks ser!” The frightened man wheezed. “A white wolf, seen in the distance on the hills, and a small thread of riders coming up strongly on us from below, the sentries say. The men are forming up, but the horses are fighting them!” He gasped.

Ser Addam was already shoving his arm through the back of his shield when the squire ended his sharing.

“Of course the horses are fighting them, they can smell the wolf. He’s uphill from us, so his scent is all they smell right now.” He cursed as he checked the sureness of his armor. “They’ll be of no use. A strong shieldwall and the Starks throwing themselves upon it is the only thing that can save us now.”

He looked at her then, searching her face for something, but Sansa had no way of knowing just what.

_If he expects me to weep for him, he overestimates the reach of his courtesy._

He looked to his squire then, as he grabbed the man by his breastplate and jerked him forward.

“Keep her safe, understand?” He growled at him. “Stay here and keep her safe. We both know what Lord Tywin charged us to do, but should this battle go against us, and it looks like it will, disregard his orders and keep her safe. It may be the only thing that allows you to live through the night. Ask her brother for a knighthood if you get the chance.”

With that he strode from the tent, stopping only to look back the one time.

“It was only duty my lady. That’s all it ever was.” He whispered and then was gone, leaving her with an ashen squire who looked everywhere but at her.

 

 

  *******

 

Jon

 

 

He had no idea that his days in the south would be so rife with fighting. Ghost had led them from battle to battle, chasing down foes with an armored host at his back.

They’d been a few days ride from the Stoney Sept, when the massively useful outriders of Ser Brynden had ridden them down hard, with news of a significant Lannister host pushing through the southern riverlands before breaking into two separate forces and riding hard for the west.

This had put the men Jon rode with in high dudgeon, at the thought of the Lannisters once more seeking to invade their lands. He wasn’t actually in disagreement with them.

_How much more can the good people of these fair lands take?_

According to the scouts, the host had been nearly six thousand strong; horsed and had been riding fast, with their leather to the tearing.

The rivermen had wanted to meet them at once and Jon held with that, but Harrion Karstark and Ser Brynden had urged caution instead, and would rather know more of either host before committing to battle with one.

_Plus, it wasn’t like we’re an untouched host ourselves._

After the battle against the Mountain, the rivermen that Jon and Ser Brynden rode with had taken significant losses. Out of the five thousand that they’d originally had under their command, they were down by five hundred by the end of that fight. They’d lost more than a thousand to the organization of patrols that were even now, watching the borders of the riverlands, seeking to prevent the spread of greyscale through their burned lands.

All in all, they now had a little less than three thousand horse under their hand. That wasn’t enough to take on all three Lannister armies, but maybe it was enough to crush the smaller ones.

_It would’ve definitely been enough had the Frey’s remained with their men._

The Frey banners had disappeared four days ago, riding off without so much as a fare thee well. They left the Stark camp with three hundred men in the middle of the night with nothing in the way of an explanation.

But even if the brood of Lord Walder hadn’t bothered to leave word behind for their exodus, their actions left embers of anger in the men that remained.

_Weasels one and all, with few exceptions._

And that’s how Jon found himself chasing after the smaller Lannister army, using Ghost as a scout to light the way.

They’d had skirmishes with small bands of deserters who were put to the sword easily enough but Ghost was acting eager in a way he hadn’t before, so Jon knew that the army they found themselves chasing was close.

Only for more than half of it to split off yet again, aiming for what appeared to be the Stoney Sept.

Ser Brynden and Ser Wylis Manderly had promptly taken eighteen hundred of the men, and taken off after them, leaving Lord Jon and Lord Harrion with a little more than a thousand men to harry the smaller army.

However that was before the Freys melted away in the night.

He knew that Lord Harrion was somewhat skeptical of the wisdom of the plan to divide themselves but Jon had to only look at the agitation of Ghost to see that there was something more to the host that seemed intent on making the Goldroad.

And that was how he found himself leading a strong contingent of horsemen through the dark hills overlooking the Blackwater Rush. Harrion advised to ride up from the south, and Ghost had made the decision for Jon to hold the high ground.

The wolf had just announced his presence with the same full bellied snarl that had heralded the breaking of the Mountain a mere two weeks ago. Though that time, it had been part of the plan.

This time, it gave away the element of surprise. Jon merely held out his fist and tightened his knees about his horse. The well trained animal surged forward and as silent as Ghost used to be, he and his men plunged down the hill side.

Ghost was beside him, shining eerily in the knight, eager for the battle. And then uncharacteristically, promptly ran off towards the empty hillscape behind the Lannister camp.

Jon wanted to turn and follow, but knew his men needed his courage to fight at their best.

And they wouldn’t be so keen to follow him if they knew he merely followed his wolf. They feared and respected the direwolf, but would doubtless scoff at his reluctance to fight without him.

He rode on, even though the absent of his companion was keenly felt.

He saw the glint of metal in the night air, and knew this battle would be hard fought and bloody as none he’d been in before.

_It mattered not. This is war, and I knew this before I came south._

He heard the twang of countless crossbows and prayed they find little purchase among his men. But that wasn’t to be. Already, the screaming of the wounded and dying had begun.

And those unharmed still held their shields aloft, clenching their teeth at each painful slam that traveled up the arm and into the shoulder.

Finally, over the shield rim that he dared to peek over, Jon saw that the Lannisters had abandoned their mad horses for a shieldwall instead.

“Shit.” Was all he said at the sight of the entrenched wall stretching across the hill side they were plunging down.

“Hold!” He shouted, ruthlessly jerking his reins, the horse tossing its head in displeasure. It wasn’t the equal of the mount that bled and died taking down the Mountain, but it was a steady beast, and he felt a moment of guilt for the harshness of the pull.

He was relieved to see that his men had slowed with him, though few as abruptly as he did. Now they milled about him in confusion, refusing to turn their backs on the Lannisters below, but still clearly unsure about what had changed.

It was plain as the moon in the sky to see what had changed.

Without the Freys they certainly didn’t have enough men to engage the shieldwall facing them, with a shieldwall of their own.

If they bullishly forced the issue, they’d be slowly surrounded, as the undoubtedly well trained Lannisters would seek to match them shield to shield, and then with their additional numbers slowly curl around them, until they were ringed in on all sides, and the ground they stood on became a butchers killing ground.

_Ser Rodrik would jeer my dead soul for an eternity if I were to lead my men into that folly. But he’s shown us many a time how to defeat such a thing. I must become the very thing that Robb and I use to curse and snarl against._

He remembered the days back when everything was right in the north, and the joyful hours spent whooping and fighting in the martial yard of Winterfell under the watchful eye of Ser Rodrik; much better days, from a simpler time of their lives. But even those days had dark times, and nothing in the yard was as hated, as when the master at arms called for the eldest sons of Eddard Stark, along with the greenest would-be guardsmen to form a shieldwall.

Even now he grimaced to think about it.

Three levels of interlocking shields to huddle behind and hold onto, while the seasoned guards would take turns beating on the wall, shouting, threatening and generally being bullies.

Inside the wall was nothing but a loud, banging humid darkness, heaving bodies, sour breath and thick spittle dripping down from the man above you.

He remembered vaguely hearing Bran hoot to see it, and Arya shouting encouragements, but it was easy for them. They didn’t have to stand in the dark and hope the guard’s staves wouldn’t crack on a knee or an elbow, or worse, a rib. It was hell in the shieldwall, and the only respite a man got in there, likely meant death in a true battle were he to fall for it.

For it was when Ser Rodrik would send Iverd the guardsman to break the wall, was when hell got hotter, breath got even more rancid, and men were prone to vomit.

A huge northman, with only Hodor claiming more height in Winterfell, he was a nice enough man when you passed him on the walls, but in the yard, his business was obedience, and that obedience meant pain.

Robb had taken to calling him That Fucker whenever they were forced into the formation, and it was all Jon could do to hold in his laughter while leveraging his feet against the ground.

_Adding yet more sour air into that dark den would’ve only made the waiting more unbearable._

Ser Rodrik would bellow, the men of the shieldwall would curse unhappily, and the audible steps of the giant would squish on the muddy ground.

The men unfortunate enough to be holding the lowest shields would see his huge feet first, planted and wide, and yell for the entire mass to hold strongly. The second level would grit their teeth and lean back into the topmost rank, and they’d in turn crouch down while holding their shields high with one hand, and the other arm would reach around the torso of the second rank shield and pull him back. Hair would be dripping with the effort and plastered to faces, while rubbing on the face of another, and it more often than not amounted to nothing.

For Iverd would draw back his monstrous axe, and with a great bellow sling it forward, catching the edge of a second level shield and with another shout, yank it towards him.

The poor unlucky soul would have his shield hooked and ripped from his arm if he let go, but fearing Ser Rodrik’s displeasure he’d stoutly hold on and then be pulled into the light, letting in thankfully cooling air and sunshine, but also the grinning mouths and eager eyes of the other guardsmen with their waiting staves.

They’d swiftly widen that gap, stepping into the breach with sharp swings of the wooden clubs, and the resulting confusion easily broke the wall and it would become singular skirmishes until Ser Rodrik tired of the yelps and swats.

_And now we must become those fuckers for the Lannisters, and swing these blades to more injury than the practice clubs we used in Winterfell._

Jon looked at his assembly of riders and cursed the Freys yet again. If he only had a man left to him that was the size of Ser Hosteen and as well armored, the Lannister wall could be ripped to pieces.

Looking through his men, his eyes fell on the lone northmen aside from himself and Lord Harrion.

Alp and Pyne were huge and ferocious in battle, but this task seemed too great a danger, even for them.

The two clansmen who’d proven themselves indispensable were actually larger than the Frey knight, but their armor was leathers and rusted chainmail. Either would be hacked to ruin if he thought to use them. He didn’t want to send either to a certain death, not when they’d served so well.

But when men ask for the right to be the strong swing, and gain the glory of breaking a staunch shieldwall, you honor their bravery.

And they did ask, eagerly at that.

“My lord, I’d ask for the right to meet the wall and grind it down.” Pyne asked first, as the more forthcoming of the two. He pointed one thickly muscled arm to a small drop on the hill, a shade past the midpoint of the long waiting Lannister line. “Give me one hundred brave lads on that arch, and we can tumble the lions down the hill on their arses.” He promised with a grin.

It wouldn’t be enough however. Those who he might fell would simply be swiftly replaced and repositioned, while his men would be slaughtered for their efforts.

The advantage in numbers that the Lannister army had would see it so.

Alp had his own ideas of how to proceed.

“My lord, it might work, but us riding right over them with all our mounted strength would be a better way to bleed these fuckers.” He advised crudely. “We’ve got the high ground, and we men of the mountains know how to make good on the high point.”

Clearly both were eager to see an end to this chase, and Jon agreed with them. He just didn’t want to lose lives needlessly in the doing.

Alp’s plan made sense, but he could see the spear points shining in the dark, and knew a great many men and horses would be lost, and it wasn’t a certain defeat for the Lannisters still.

_Part of being a leader is asking your men to die for you, and the best leaders are there alongside their men to give heart and resolve, when fear and cravenness is stirring. My father taught us that, and Jon Hoarfrost will do no less._

“Neither of you is wrong, so we’ll do both.” He began. “Shatter them on that rise, and ride over them with our lances thrusting forward. But to make each a greater, bloodier blow, we’ll first rip apart that shieldwall. And as the two strongest men in this army, you’ll each have a part in that. Hear me now.”

And with that, he quickly outlined a plan that he hoped would see them and the rest of the men through to the next day’s dawn.

_I’m half glad Ghost left us. If he were here, he’d surely try to follow me in this, and end up badly wounded or dead._

When it was time to put it in motion a scant few minutes later, all he saw was good men walking into a certain death that he’d sent them to.

And he walked right along with them, his long sword sheathed at his waist, but with a hand axe and lethally sharp short sword in either hand. Nearly one hundred madmen walked with him, but they were all quiet. It only seemed fitting that death should come quietly. Ahead of him was the strong form of Alp, and beyond him was the long, bristling Lannister shieldwall.

The lions had decided not to roar tonight, and so it was a silent walk to victory and glory, if the old gods were kind.

_The old gods were many things, but kindness isn’t something we’d normally call those who desired blood sacrifices. And tonight will be as great an offering as we’ve given them yet, so let them be kind to my men._

Alp and Pyne were each at the head of two small groups, no more than one hundred and a half again in all, split between the two of them.

The rest of Jon’s portion of the army was mounted and waiting on the hill, while Harrion and his few rode from the south to plunder the supplies and finish off the wounded.

_War has made us harsh and pitiless. Though it’s not difficult to be wrathful when I remember how they murdered the entire Stark household of Kings Landing. I’ll not shed any tears for these men. The family they serve-_

His thoughts were cut short when Alp gave a bellow and a curse and charged forward, hammer in hand.

“Kill the fuckers!” Was all he bothered with before he was eating up the distance between him and the waiting Lannisters, and as Jon followed, he chanced a glance to his right and saw Pyne and his men, barely short four score doing the same.

They were all in the northman’s huge shadow as he ran at the line, and Jon tightened his grip on each weapon at hand, and then they were there, and he could see the hateful eyes glowering at them from within the darkness of the shieldwall.

“With him!” Jon bellowed as Alp slung his massive hammer out, catching the edge of a crimson shield. The specifically appointed men with him were brave, for they charged forward holding nothing but shields which they used to partially shield the huge northman.

He was still dangerously exposed, and Jon himself had to hack down a brutal spear thrust that would’ve torn through the clansman’s throat if it landed. But the warrior was well planted, and had even found a rock to place one foot on and pull against.

Alp gave a guttural groan as if he were rutting with a female, and hauled the shield towards him. At that moment, the Lannister wall erupted with curses and threats to hold, but it was too late.

The few men Jon had trusted with their charge had been waiting for that moment, and hadn’t let it pass without doing their part.

On either side of the straining northmen, had been men who boasted of particular skill with crossbows. So Jon had put it to them.

Ten on each side of the northmen were to fire into the dark shieldwall interior once the shield was lowered enough.

And they did their grisly task well.

Anguished screams could be heard following the rapid snap of the bolts, and all around both northmen the wall sagged in either direction. Jon licked his dry lips and thought of his father meeting him on the other side of the wall.

And suddenly, death didn’t seem quite as bad as it did before.

“With me now!” He roared and flung himself into that tight dark space, short sword and axe swinging with vicious intent. He couldn’t see anything but shapes in the darkness, but he heard the westermen voices cursing him as he lashed out, and he could smell their sour urine and feel their slimy spittle and he laughed at being one of the invaders of the shieldwall this time.

_If you could see me now Robb, I’ve become that fucker._

The nearest bodies to him had been punched by the crossbow bolts, so he shoved them aside rudely, seeking to make the gap wider as he went.

He heard the crunches of weapons landing on the shieldwall from the outside and laughed aloud for the men inside were trapped. If they abandoned their shields to grab weapons and match him, the rivermen outside would break through, and he saw that some were doing just that.

Moonlight peeked into various gaps further along the wall, revealing the hate filled eyes of the Lannister soldiers, but he didn’t care.

He was a devil in that cramped space, and he would have his due.

The two weapons in his hands were soaked in blood, and he sought to stain them with more.

Swing to the right, turn away the awkward stab from his left, and follow that arm back with the axe aimed at where the head would be. Take the crossbow the man behind him thrust at him, and shoot it down into the dark, before shoving it back behind him and refinding his tools of trade.

He’d found his rhythm of murder, and was free with it, trusting his instincts to keep him whole.

His hands and knees were slick with blood and shit for the space was so small he had to knee walk his way to mayhem, killing as he went without restraint.

He repeatedly head-butted a man who held a shaking arm out at him, stopping only when the metallic taste of blood dripped down his helmet into his mouth. He still buried his short sword in the man’s belly for good measure before plowing on.

He saw a man throw off his shield entirely, abandoning his post and standing to his feet, hand drawing out his sword only for the spiked end of a war hammer to pit his head. And with that, the full light of the moon pierced the wall, and it collapsed, each man going for his weapons and forgoing the wall.

They broke bitterly, and it was hate and the desire for bloody vengeance that spurred them to fight now.

They’d been trapped inside that dark pit for nearly half an hour, first waiting for battle, and then being hacked and butchered mercilessly at the same time, but from two different points in the line, and now they were baying for blood.

But that was to be their undoing.

As soon as they broke, the rest of the on foot warriors were to charge Pyne’s small arch and hack the lions there to pieces, safely out of the way of the mounted lancers.

The mounted strength that had held off while a foolhardy young lord wrestled with death were eager, and in the hills watching the shieldwall waiting for the cracks, and when they’d forsook their strong defensive position, the horsemen were already moving.

It was four hundred against nearly a thousand, but they weren’t ready for the first charge, and their immediate attention was on Jon and the rest of the on foot warriors who had hacked their shieldwall apart from the inside.

Three turns the Stark horse made against the Lannisters, each more bloody than the last. The splatter of blood was free in the night, and they were all being marked by it.

The men were screaming as they killed, or screaming as they were killed. He saw a man in Lannister crimson and gold stumbling about, weeping from the one eye that remained to him, before the swing of a great axe ended his tears.

“Stark!” was the dominant cry of the battle, though some did yell for the lions. Most just yelled for their mothers or fathers, but no succor was to be gained from such distant relatives.

_Death doesn’t allow us suckle, but slays._

He saw one man holding firm in the midst of the routing of his army, stabbing the horse of any riverman who rode near him, all the while rallying his men to him and looking at Jon and killing his way towards him.

Seeing the threat, Jon swiftly tucked his axe and short blade into his belt, and drew his long sword for they were no longer fighting in the cramped dank, but under the open night sky, the bright white moon watching it all in silence.

The man was clearly a knight and the leader of the lions, and he was a twilight demon with the sword in his hand and his shield held high.

His reddish brown hair was caked to his face in a viscous paste of blood and spittle, but he didn’t care and was killing his way across the hill, stepping on the bodies of his own dead in his surefooted haste to meet Jon.

He said nothing as he stepped and slew, just letting his bladework speak for him.

All Jon saw was the burnished breastplate showing a tree aflame, and then he was charging to meet him, though he suspected the knight was the better warrior.

And his suspicions were proven correct in the first meeting of their swords.

The copper knight turned Jon’s charge almost lazily, even as he sidestepped over a dead Lannister soldier.

His response to that first move was anything but lazy however, as he blew forward with a storm of  sword slashes and shield smashes, driving Jon back on the defensive.

Jon could turn away the slashes, but the smashes were the trouble point. He knew what the issue was.

_I’m still built like half a squire, while this knight has been in the glory of manhood for several years. He must outweigh me by nearly three stone._

It was true.

They were both tall, and Jon had no trouble looking him evenly in the eyes as they clashed, but he had nothing approaching the western knight’s sheer broadness of form and heaviness of muscle.

And the knight knew it, and ruthlessly pressed his advantage. He must’ve had Jon dead to rights at least five times, but each time he allowed Jon to find his form and recommit to the match.

It was puzzling, but maybe the man was a sadist.

_The seven realms know that Tywin Lannister has the reputation of encouraging such behavior in his favorites._

They smashed together again and again, the auburn knight using his sword to beat at Jon, and his strong shield to crunch against him so hard that Jon winced each time, lamenting the absence of Ghost.

_If he were here, it’d at least make the knight more wary and thus open up more chances for me to break through. I know I can meet and match his blade, but the power behind his sword is what I have no answer for. Ser Rodrik always said “Size can’t be taught.”_

As if to prove his old master at arms right, the copper knight bullied forward yet again, but at the last moment turned his leg, and slashed against Jon, who caught it with his blade, but the muscle behind the blade tumbled him to the ground in a way that would’ve been funny had it been anyone else, and merely in the training yard, rather than in a fight of life and death. He held his sword tightly in his grasp, even as he tried to put distance between himself and the knight he just knew was coming to skewer him like a pig.

But he didn’t.

The copper knight just stood and waited with an expectant smirk on his face.

Jon rose to his feet as quickly as possible, all the while keeping his sword pointed at the enemy in a circle of rivermen, when he suddenly understood the man’s game.

Jon saw the looks of uncertainty on the faces of the rivermen watching the fight, the faith and conviction in their king faltering, and worse breaking with each wince they witnessed and every smash that sent him reeling.

_He’s not just going to kill me here tonight. He’s intent on killing Robb’s legend. And he’s doing it slowly, with every charge I’m knocked back on, and every thrust I barely parry. Each time we come together, he reveals more of the boy they all think hides beneath the armor. “And this is who’s leading us”, he wants them to think. No more will I dance to this man’s tune. Now I’ll dance my own jig._

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Jon began his fight.

“What’s your name ser?” He asked as if they were meeting in a tavern, not a battlefield.

The man’s green eyes widened, and then crinkled with amusement even as his smirk deepened.

“I am Ser Addam Marbrand, King Stark. I suspect it will be a famous name by the end of this night.”

Jon said nothing to this, simply just hefting his sword and readying his feet to move. And then he did move; swiftly and confidently rushing forward, even while smoothly tugging his bloody axe from his belt.

And then he was on the attack, a hacking swing with his sword, and a cruel downward cut with the axe, aimed at the arm holding the shield. Ser Addam met both with ease, only to grunt when Jon purposely slammed his full body weight against him before skipping back.

With that one grunt, a step back was achieved.

Again and again, Jon came forward, using both his longsword and axe to try to confuse and break open the experienced knight’s defense. Each time being beaten back and gaining small cuts and bruises, but getting him to retreat back step by step.

Counting on the dauntless stamina of his age to gain him ground against the power of an experienced warrior.

It was stupidly dangerous, but such is youth.

He was a hacking, cutting reed, too slender to stab with ease, too fast to slash without the knight opening himself up to a chance to bleed for it.

On one of Jon’s spectacularly stupid rushes, the knight stepped backwards and slipped in a patch of grass slick with bloody entrails, and he went to one knee with his sword planted for support even as he looked up with fear for the first time in his grass green eyes.

Jon slashed his sword across the man’s throat, cursing as he felt it scrape harmlessly over the chain mail that was there, but he continued with the axe anyway, but this he slung up from below at the bend in the arm holding the shield that had battered him about this night. The metal crunched, and the knight roared with pain, even as his hand loosened its life saving grip. Not letting up for a moment, Jon stayed within the close embrace of the knight’s shield, and with his back exposed to the man he smashed his elbow back, trusting the metal vambrace to protect him from any great injury.

The resulting crack was refreshing, and the groan that followed was welcome.

Stepping away from the knight, Jon heard him lumber to his feet, and then turning saw him stop and sway with a bloody face for a moment before he tumbled on his arse down the hill leaving his shield behind him.

Jon would’ve laughed, but the energy to do so was absent. He was bone tired, and sick of death. He fell to his knees on that bloody hill, feeling the squish of the grass, and the wet stickiness of blood soaking his breeches.

He looked down at the work of that night, and briefly felt nauseous.

Below the hill, the Lannister camp was awash in fire, a small few Lannister soldiers fleeing into the dark hills to the west. The many Lannister dead were mounded on the hill, the result of the breaking of the shieldwall and the three charges the surviving soldiers faced.

And at the bottom of the hill, stood Ser Addam Marbrand. He was back on his feet, bloody nose and all and pointed his sword at the hilltop; at Jon.

The lions that held true, rallied to that sword, and soon it was nearly one hundred Lannister soldiers pushing up the hill.

Jon gave a small groan as he too arose, only to be nearly buffeted out the way by a tall young lord in a black cloak with the white sunburst flapping on the back of it.

Lord Harrion Karstark moved down that hill like a shadow, only shouting “Together now!” as he went.

The rivermen who had been the silent spectators to Jon’s near suicidal duel with Ser Marbrand plucked up their courage and followed in his wake, yelling the familiar battlecry of Stark.

Jon made himself take one slow step, and then another, until he realized he was gliding down that hill as well, his own fatigue forgotten as the blood rush of violence took over.

They smashed into that Lannister line like a stone through old pottery, and soon it was just the killing fever leading their weapons.

Jon didn’t know when he’d put his axe back into his belt, but he had, and was a dervish with his sword in his hands, holding it with one hand at the hilt, the other halfway down the blade. He was in a brutal fury as he killed, for he knew that these last few men were all that was standing between him and rest.

He slammed the hilt into a young soldier’s face, only to turn it and saw the blade across the neck of the stunned man.

Only to be knocked aside as the stout form of Ser Addam rocked into him from behind. Jon turned, holding his red sword out, but saw that it was unnecessary.

Ser Addam and Lord Harrion were engaged in a match of swords, and Lord Harrion was a much better match for the western knight than Jon was, he grudgingly admitted.

They came together again and again, Lord Harrion ever on the attack, his blade a silver ghost that haunted Ser Addam as he tried to match him. Clearly more comfortable fighting with a shield at the ready than without one, he fought ably, but whether it was a hatred born of his captivity, or the rage he still felt over the deaths of his younger brothers, Harrion Karstark was the superior warrior.

His sword was everywhere at once it seemed, and his cloak acted as a cover, to disguise his form for Ser Addam never seemed to be ready for the northman’s coming.

_If I could have had a man like him in the yard as a continual sparring partner, how much better would I have fared myself tonight?_

He watched as the young Karstark heir swept aside slashes and thrusts, only to deliver his own, interspersed with backhands and vicious punches, and soon, Ser Addam’s face was bloody beyond the nose Jon broke.

It went on and on it seemed, Lord Harrion growing ever faster and more brutal, and Jon was almost at the point of shouting at the man to make an end as the Lannister knight was bleeding from various small wounds, when the Karstark heir made an inside swing at the knight’s leg, only for the man to catch it with a curse. But when he caught it with his gauntleted fist, he didn’t count on the strong northman pressing it against his thigh and then ruthlessly hauling the sword back.

Jon didn’t know why the mail didn’t catch and deflect the sword edge as it had so many other things, but it didn’t, and Ser Addam Marbrand screamed long and loud before he fell back, the wound on his thigh gushing freely as it spurted.

Lord Harrion merely wiped his bloody sword on the torn cape of the man dying at his feet, and turned and strode away, the crowd parting before him respectfully.

At that moment, Ghost snarled and the army as one turned in the direction it came from. All they saw was one tent, that hadn’t yet been touched by the fires eating the rest of the red tents.

Jon saw Lord Harrion make for it, his sword at the ready, only to stop once he made his way inside the flap.

_I better catch him before he slays a valuable hostage._

With that, he picked up his heavy feet and made himself run to the tent, charging inside with his eyes peeled for danger, shoving past Lord Harrion, only to be struck dumb by the sight inside.

There was a young Lannister soldier, crouched in the corner with his hands held out to make it clear he was no threat, for only a few feet away, Ghost was planted before him, hackled raised and fangs bared. And behind Ghost, clutching a wolf pelt scabbard was someone Jon hadn’t ever thought to see again.

“Sansa.”

Was all he said, and then he wasn’t so tired that he couldn’t wrap his arms around his missing sister and hug her like he hadn’t hugged her in years.

And she must’ve been miserable in the capitol, because she didn’t shriek at the blood and gore he was covered in touching her or the fact that he was but her bastard brother, but she just hugged him back, a surprising strength in her arms.

And then they were both weeping, him silently and she audibly, and neither cared who saw.

And all of a sudden, Ghost’s insistence on following this army made sense, and his disappearance at the onset of the fight was something Jon was proud of.

“Good boy, Ghost. Good boy.” He brokenly said over his sisters shoulder, and the huge wolf merely looked at him with those bright red eyes and he knew, once again that the old gods had meant for them to have these wolves.

As more and more men outside the tent crowded around those inside, Jon protectively placed his arm over his little sister’s shoulders and with Ghost on the other side, made to walk out.

“A moment your grace.” Was all Lord Harrion said as he smoothly slipped his cloak off his shoulders and offered it to Sansa.

“For the princess.”

She paused for a moment, clutching the sword to her chest, before looking at Harrion and apparently he passed whatever test she put to him, for she accepted it with a nod and a thank you.

At the word princess, murmurs rippled through the army.

And Jon knew the deception was at an end, so he knelt.

First Jon and Harrion, and then the men immediately outside the tent, until all the bloody and tired men who were still capable of doing so were on their knees before the sister of their king.

“Arise.” She told them.” Please, all of you brave men arise.” Her voice was steady and warm as she stood there in the moonlight covered in a bloody cloak.

As they stood, she turned to Jon and he was struck by how much she resembled her mother, and she placed a warm hand on his arm, and he knew that though the looks were similar, she wasn’t Lady Catelyn Stark.

“What do you want Princess Sansa?” He asked, even though he suspected he already knew.

Her blue eyes were wet with tears and red and puffy, but she smiled tremulously as she gave her answer.

“I want to go home Jon. Home.”

And with that, his arm went in the air, and he roared what his men had wanted to hear for weeks.

“To Riverrun!”

And so they went.

 

End

 


	9. As the streams cross

When Wolves So Will

Chapter 9

 

Garlan

 

_Riverrun_

 

“Shit!”

His man Teston cursed for the third time in the hour they’d spent trying to practice in Riverrun’s orderly training yard.

Well, he was watching his men practice, calling out tips and instructions from the spectators shade.

Garlan would’ve normally taken his man to task for his crudeness, but he didn’t entirely disagree with his sentiments, even if he would refrain from voicing them in the same way.

_It’s damnably hard to train and focus on these mock battles when a huge grey monster is constantly slinking in the background, growling like the demon it appears to be. But to approach the owner of the beast, would mean braving the cold blue stare of her wolfish lady mother._

He knew that Lady Catelyn Stark was a fair and able mistress of all that surrounded her, here in her father’s castle, but when it came to anyone saying anything against her miraculously returned youngest daughter and the devil wolf that followed her, folly was the only word for it.

_It’s no surprise that she ferociously guards her family in these times of war. Her legendary husband was for all intents murdered at a holy site, and her two daughters were taken captive by the cruelest family in the seven kingdoms._

The fact that one had been recovered was still a testament to the goodness of the Seven, to hear the old nattering septon of Riverrun tell it.

_I’d rather give the lion’s share of credit to the Blackfish and Ser Manderly and the good men who followed them. And a small cup can go to the wolf which prowls these halls now._

Ser Brynden Tully was a famed knight, proven many times in battle, and so he had the easy grace of one who had garnered so much acclaim in his long life that he no longer saw the need to be greedy and try to grasp every accolade.

He was happy to tell all who asked about how the wolf had played the largest part in the Stark family reunion.

“The evil beast had a pack of nearly one hundred common wolves following her, and she was clearly following us!” He’d shouted two nights ago while taking care not to spill the wine in his cup as he turned to the big blonde knight beside him. “Am I right Wylis? Don’t I tell it true?” He demanded, the strength of the drink slackening his manner while roughening his tongue.

There had been no need, for the flaxen haired knight had been nodding in agreement as the Blackfish told the tale, but he was a polite sort, so he gave the man what he wanted.

“Aye Ser Brynden.” He reassured quietly, as he quaffed his own ale. “Must’ve been at least a hundred, and bold as can be. Never seen anything quite like it myself, and I’ve hunted through the Wolfswood.” He finished, looking wonderingly into his cup as if the answer to the mystery would be found there.

“It’s the she-wolf!” The Blackfish insisted. “My niece told me how all the children of Lord Eddard had been given a wolf pup, so she grew up around men, never having developed a fear of us. And now she’s gone and emboldened the beasts of these lands!” He grumbled, quieter in his displeasure now.

His audience, a mix of Tully and Tyrell knights and servants alike settled into a moment of disquiet. Only to have it interrupted once again by the raised voice of the famed knight, who clearly wasn’t done with his retelling.

“So there we were, far from these lands, riding hard towards the border of the riverlands and hot on the trail of gouty old Kevan Lannister.” He rasped to his audience. “We’d separated from Lord Harrion and Lord Jon two days past, as the smaller Lannister force had split in two and they made to follow the lesser host. We were harrying them steadily, picking off the deserters and closing the gap, breaking only for short periods of rest.” He stopped there, taking a hearty pull on his wine.

“Rest the horses needed badly, for the beasts required water and feed to keep up the grueling pace to catch the lions.” Ser Wylis interjected bluntly. There was a shade of something in his tone that could have been disapproval, but Garlan wouldn’t try to name it. “As did the men, who had rode all over these lands with little complaint reaching my ears.” Disapproval it was then.

The Blackfish was unbothered, snorting with a rude dismissive air, even as he continued his story.

“It was on one of these oh so necessary rests, that one of my scouts reported that old Kevan was mayhap an hour ahead of us.” He grinned toothily at this part, looking decidedly more wolfish than his personal arms would lead any to expect. “If we cut through a small wood, we’d see the blood and piss colored standards with our own eyes, and the craven men who fight under it. And so we made to, only to ride arse over hitch into the middle of the monstrous wolf pack. The horses screamed and the men prayed, but thanks to our familiarity with the white beast, they kept control. But it was a near thing all the same.” He warned, looking moodily at one of the maids drawing out the task of banking the fire in the great hall. She was conspicuously lingering, clearly hoping for the older knight to carry on with the story, but he seemed lost for a moment.

Ser Wylis stepped in with aplomb though, and in his rougher northern accent, the story grew aches and chills. “We hadn’t seen them for nearly a day, so we thought mayhap they’d tired of shadowing us. We had many times their number, and while many of us had seen the monsters that are the companions of the King and his brother, there was only one beast of near that size in the pack.” He held his huge hand up, even with the top of his ribs, and then dropped it lower to somewhere below his waist. “The rest were much smaller, and the largest one next to the she-wolf, was still less than half her size. We had no true fear, not with our numbers and weapons, but still, we all were uneasy in their presence.”

The mood that had taken Ser Brynden had passed for he picked it back up there.

“I know that any who weren’t there will disbelieve me, but by the seven in the sept, I swear to you that the big bitch looked at the Stark banners we flew, and she whined to see them. One moment prior, we were caught in the midst of a snarling pack, so loud they drowned out the horse’s screams and neighs and hers were the loudest of them all but one glance and silence held that wood.” He finished his wine on that, frowning at his memories of the day.

Some guffawed outright, and a great many smirked, but the stolid presence of Ser Wylis quieted them.

“I wasn’t near the Blackfish when we rode into the pack, and I admit my attentions were on the supply carts, for I feared the beasts going for the meat and leaving us with no sustenance afield.” He stated sheepishly, as a few knowing titters leaked out. “But I will say that we rode into a din, and it soon became as silent as a crypt. I can’t say the she-wolf knew the direwolf and what our having it represented, but I will say it was soon silent. “

Ser Brynden soon sought to finish his story, no longer as happy in the telling, it was plain to see to all who listened.

“We never did catch Ser Kevan, so the old shit likely made it to the Rock, but it wasn’t for a lack of trying.” He admitted. “That she-wolf and her lessers herded us back into the riverlands, forcibly nipping and guiding our horses back, and when a nag has to choose between the fang and the lash, the fang always wins, as we learned. We found my niece with a rag tag little band of survivors who were meant for the nights watch, in a small burned out village a day’s ride west of High Heart. She knew us not, but she knew the banners we carried, and the she-wolf who hounded us. By her knowing the wolf, I knew her and promptly turned for Riverrun, and ultimately, her good lady mother.” The emotion thickening his words was a note to the quality of the man.

Ser Wylis nodded his big head, and offered his own thoughts on the sweet ending to their tale.

“I must say as a younger man, I imagined I’d never feel prouder than when I was knighted by my lord father, and then successfully stood my vigil in the beautiful Sept of Snows.” He blinked with an intense concentration on his face. “But when I was able to help return the missing daughter of Lord Eddard Stark to her family, I felt as if the gods granted me another inch of height, so tall I felt that day.”

The stalling maid, who had long given up her ruse of tending the fire, had snorted then, but rather than breaking into laughter, she wept loud tears to hear his heartfelt words.

_I must admit that her return to this castle left me feeling decidedly opposed to the notion of goodness, may the Father forgive me for thinking Ill of a small girl._

Garlan still remembered the day past when the knights returned to Riverrun, unscathed and bearing a greater treasure than any Lannister gold horde, going by the reaction of the normally composed and reserved Lady Stark.

He’d been taking a walk about the grounds with his brother Loras before the evening came and night made it impossible, examining the walls from the outside of the sandstone castle, looking for signs of the long past Lannister siege, when shrieks and shouts were heard from the smallfolk constantly coming and going from the castles main gate.

Loras cursed as he turned and looked.

“Fucking Lannisters.”

Both drawing swords, they ran in two different directions, Garlan towards the noise, Loras towards the Tyrell camp outside the walls, in case more men were needed.

Garlan didn’t know whether it was a rash charge from some Lannister swords or a trick, but he doubted it.

_Lord Tywin is far afield currently, and any attack would have been seen by the constant Tully patrols and scouts that Lady Stark is insistent upon. No, this is likely some petty ploy by the Freys, to remind Riverrun of their displeasure at our coming._

But both sons of Highgarden were wrong.

When Garlan made the rusted gates of Riverrun, he was nearly trampled by the crush of peasants, only making his way through the press by holding his sword high and forcing his way through, shouting for order and calm all the while.

Until he cleared the dirty masses, and found himself staring into the murderous yellow eyes of a grey monster that could’ve only been sent from the seven hells.

He wished he’d been better armed, but so close to Riverrun, and with the constant vigilance from the Tully guards, he hadn’t thought his armor would be necessary.

_Worse yet, I didn’t want to make the Tully’s think I doubted their ability to protect guests of their castle. And now I’ll be a meal for a monster, and my lovely wife a widow before her time._

His sword arm was steady as he kept it staunchly between himself and the monster wolf in a low guard, and he prayed that his brother would soon arrive with men bearing spears and crossbows, but then the beast attacked.

It was an evil snap of those enormous jaws, and then it was flying at him, those huge paws drawn up, and its wet maw wide with the white gleam of those teeth terrible in their menace.

He in turn shoved his blade forward in a thrust meant to skewer, one hand at the grip, the other clenched to the top of the pommel, his knee aligned under his sword with his remaining leg planted to the back and turned, reinforcing the weight of the sword against the expected mass of the monster.

Only for the beast to dive to the side in a roll to the left, bypassing the blade completely, and leaving Garlan entirely exposed and vulnerable on his weaker side.

Knowing his speed was nothing to the animal, being an adept student of the yard, he turned anyway.

The force the animal hit him with was terrifying in its crush, and all he could manage was a pained whimper as it rolled atop him, the sharp claws on its paws making a shredded nettle of his brand new doublet and breeches as it rose above him, snarling death into his face.

He forced an arm up, reaching for the neck to try to hold death at bay, but the beast shook itself free with a negligible effort, and all he got for his efforts was two trencher sized paws pressing on his ribs.

He could literally feel his bones bending and scraping together, and he nearly screamed with the agony of it all. But he couldn’t, for the air was being pushed from his body as the demon pressed down.

What he did do was piss himself, there with death in his face.

_Where the hell is Loras?!_

But his brother hadn’t come yet. He was still likely doing what Garlan wished he’d taken the time to do, gather men and put on sufficient armor.

His savior came in the form of a small girl, with short ratty hair and a long face, from which eyes of the chilliest, stoniest grey glared at him in his helpless state from over the beasts shoulder.

She unceremoniously pushed the wolf to the side, and then took its place, planting a small foot on his bruised ribs and shoving a reed thin blade in his face.

“Who the hell are you?” She demanded, drawing that blade ever closer to his throat as he gasped in relief at the removal of the weight from his person.

He couldn’t answer her, being too busy inhaling big gulps of that blessed riverlands air to bother with an introduction.

Loras had none of the composure of his brothers, and chose to make an extremely tense moment, worse.

“Lower the sword girl, or my men will drop you where you stand.”

He made that order as the green and gold liveried men surrounded the three in the shadow of the gatehouse.

Men on top of the ramparts shouted for all weapons to be lowered, but Loras and his men ignored those calls, intent on the beast and the girl who apparently controlled it.

The young girl who clearly didn’t feel any fear at the sight of several crossbows pointing at her, and the swords in the hands of those who didn’t carry them; her pet didn’t hold with the same nonchalance.

The wolf snarled evilly, the sound causing the shit in Garlan’s bowels to roil, especially since he was certain that if the beast made for him, the damage done would be fatal before his brother could intervene.

“Who are you to order me when I’m standing in front of my lord grandfather’s castle?” She snapped at Loras, fearless before the rose. “Do you serve him?”

_Oh gods. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time._

“Shit. It’s the Stark chit ser.”

That was Teston, making a muck of things as was his way.

“No ser.” Said the coldest voice Garlan had heard in a long while. “It’s the Stark princess and you will explain why my young daughter is surrounded by grown men brandishing weapons.”

That was Lady Catelyn Stark.

He saw her there, along with that massive woman whom she’d apparently taken into her service. She was seldom seen away from her lady’s side, and never in the area of the Tyrell camp, for Loras still held her to account for the mysterious death of their sister’s husband.

She was there that day though, and had her sword halfway out her scabbard, watching both the beast and the roses.

Garlan closed his eyes for a second, and just wished he were anywhere else in the world but on his back, in the shade of the gatehouse of Riverrun with Eddard Starks’s daughter glaring daggers at him, and his wife doing the same at everyone else.

He heard the shuffling of feet, as the men briefly parted.

_To be with Leonette back in Highgarden, listening to her laugh and enjoying her flirtations. To even be back with my wasp tongued grandmother, would be preferable to this moment._

All the wishing in the world wouldn’t have made it happen, so he opened his eyes and made to offer apologies from his back, but then he realized that whatever trite explanation he would’ve made mattered not.

Lady Catelyn and Princess Arya Stark only had eyes for each other, and he saw that proudly held, wet eyed lady take two shaky steps forward, and then her feet faltered and she stumbled.

Loras made to catch her, but the famed knight of roses was too slow, his chivalry clumsy in his shock.

The nightmarishly massive wolf was swift enough however, and took her weight without even a grunt. The beast licked at her fingers gently, as if they were the most delicate things in the world, those razor sharp fangs harmless at the moment.

“Mother!” Was all the young girl who had carried murder in her eyes cried out, and then she dropped her little sword and was running forward, hugging her dazed mother tightly, her small body tucked against her as if she were trying to climb into her bosom and never leave.

Great shaking sobs rocked that small form, and the wolf crooned low to hear it, settling down on the ground, and curling its enormous form around both protectively.

It mattered not that they were in the middle of what would normally be an extremely busy gate of an extremely important castle. No man valuing his life would approach them.

_The Starks are a breed unto themselves, my grandmother once said. As with so many other things, it seems my lady grandmother is once again proven right._

It was then that Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish came cantering up, loudly cursing willful children and stubborn wolves the whole way.

Garlan had seen the famous knight in many tournaments, so he’d seen the man look angry, pleased, enraged and disappointed.

But he doesn’t think he’d ever seen the man look as _soft_ as he did in the dusky evening shade as he looked upon his relatives taking a moment in each other.

He did this all from his back, for fear of any sudden movements rousing the ire of the beast with the women. He was content to lay there forgotten, as long as it took, but it was the shadow of an enormous fat man darkening the sun that had him squinting upwards, trying with no avail to see.

But he sensed the giant extending something towards him, and met him halfway, only to grunt painfully when the huge hand clasped his and pulled him to his feet.

Ser Wylis Manderly as he gruffly named himself was a huge man, blond and tall, but trending to fat and broad. There was clearly noteworthy strength in the man though, considering the ease with which he pulled Garlan to his feet.

He released his hand almost as quickly, with something almost delicate as he flicked his wrist away.

Garlan felt all his hurts in that instant, and was content to just stand there and ache as he hunched over.

But he knew that once this moment passed, the dangerous atmosphere of suspicion and distrust would only hinder the goals of his family.

“Men of Highgarden.” He wheezed as another pain racked his body. “Lower your weapons, for we are clearly amongst friends.”

The men of the rose were slow to follow his command, their eyes still trained warily upon the direwolf now calmed by her loved ones.

Loras was less patient, as always.

“You lot heard my brother!” He shouted. “Lower your weapons at once.”

The beast growled at the volume, and Garlan saw his brother’s fingers dance around his sword hilt.

“Loras!” He called hoarsely. “Walk with me brother, please.”

Loras was already moving, staying his sword as he came towards his brother, largely skirting around the Stark reunion. He gently slid an arm around his brother’s waist, supporting him as Garlan finally let his ordeal settle on him.

Garlan felt the hurts, and the shame at him letting go of his water, and merely bowed his head and sagged against his brother.

_For men to see me at such a point, I almost wish the beast had finished its work._

Teston was there on the other side of him, keeping a hard eye out for any who might think to make fun of his lord’s weakness.

They turned slowly and began the painful trek towards the too distant green and gold tents of the Reach, only to be stopped by the reluctant northern accents of the son of White Harbor.

“Ser Garlan is it?” The fat man rumbled. “There’s no shame in fearing the death found in those creatures jaws. As the Targaryens had their dragons, so too do the Starks have their direwolves. The wolf of King Robb took and ate two of the fingers of the Greatjon Umber when he challenged his rule, as hale and hearty a warrior as I’ve ever seen. Even still, it’s told that the bench the man was sitting upon was damp when he arose from it, though I’d name any a fool who thought to ask him for the truth of it. Be not ashamed ser.”

Garlan had all this said to his back, for the effort to turn and face the northern knight was beyond him, but when the three continued their walk, he held his head a little bit higher and the mortification wasn’t quite so keenly felt.

That had been a few days ago, and the rejoicing feast had been of a great cheer to the people of the castle, now that their king’s fierce little sister was safely returned to her family.

Garlan didn’t begrudge them that, but with the little princess came her fur covered death beast, and it was hardly an hour went by that someone somewhere wasn’t terrified half to death by the wolf.

Only Princess Arya and the Lady Catelyn could control the beast directly. Everyone else, even the brother of her mother and her knightly uncle Brynden were barely tolerated.

Anyone outside those connections was liable to be growled at, or even snarled upon if something they did displeased the creature.

Neither he nor Loras had taken well to the freedom of castle they offered the beast, and both had been on the cusp of demanding their sister remove herself from the rooms given to her, and resume her stay in the Tyrell encampment, but Lady Catelyn had been able to allay their fears.

Within the courtyard of Riverrun, with the entire castle somehow present at the time, she’d forced the wolf to approach the rose of Highgarden, while the matriarch of the wolves stood beside her.

Her daughter looked on with a bored face, her small hand toying with the hilt of that little sword she carried everywhere, even as his sister had tried to present herself as composed and unbothered by it all, but the strained corners of her smile, and the tightness of her eyes made it clear to any observant enough that she was fearful of the animal.

The men of the reach had their weapons in hand, and the Lady of Winterfell allowed it, confident in her trust of the animal and its intentions.

But for Garlan, standing there watching another Tyrell meet the yellow eyes, he felt a sort of respect for his sister.

_Anyone of our sillier cousins would’ve run off screaming by now, but even though she trembles, Margaery stands._

The beast took a few silent steps towards the pair, and though he imagined he could literally hear his sister’s heartbeat, she merely stood and waited.

Nymeria, as it was called, was an impossibly massive animal.

On all fours with her neck straightened up, her head was on an even level with his sisters shoulders. The long jaws looked like they could grab a man about his waist, and shake him to death.

The courage his sister showed was made more obvious by the fact that she was unarmed before the animal.

At Lady Catelyn’s urging, the animal stopped before the pair, yawning for a moment, and the curse that slipped from Teston’s lips wasn’t the only one said, just the loudest.

“Fuck me.”

Seeing those gleaming rows of teeth, and the spanning gape of the snout, had him wishing his grandmother never made the suggestion to allying with the Starks.

The childish giggle that escaped from the princess at the reactions to the wolf had her swinging her big head back to see, before facing forward again with her red tongue lolling in a brutal imitation of a human grin.

“It’s alright.” Murmured Lady Catelyn as she first reached out a hand to lovingly caress the snout of the wolf. It leaned into her touch, chuffing gently in contentment.

As the bright yellow eyes closed in pleasure, the lady took his sister’s hand, ignoring the tremble and slowly placed it alongside her own, further back on the animals head, away from the fangs.

Her soft brown eyes swung to his in awe, and she couldn’t help the girlish giggle that slipped from her parted lips.

The beast instantly pulled away, ignoring Lady Catelyn’s reprimand, but was happy to simply look at his sister.

She was frozen in place, her hand still extended but the trembling had returned even stronger.

Nymeria merely leaned out, and gently nipped her fingers, crooned low and turned and loped away, the castle suddenly busy again with plenty to do as the people parted as if the wolf was royalty.

It wasn’t enough to put all at ease though.

Loras had still been adamant on Margaery joining them outside the castle, but she was just as resolved to enjoy the hospitality within, while promising that the wolf Nymeria as she insisted they called her was happy to ignore her entirely.

“I can’t very well get to know the Starks, if I refuse to even spend time in their company, now can I?” She demanded of Loras, as Garlan knew of the futility of getting a woman to change her mind.

“I don’t see why you can’t see the sense in spending the daylight hours with the Starks, but you retiring here, safe with those who’re sworn to protect you!” He yelled as he paced back and forth in the large tent they were meeting in. ”As a matter of fact, back in the Reach, you were reluctant to even entertain this potential alliance, due to them worshipping trees. Well now we know they also lay with wolves! What’s changed, Marg?” He hissed in frustration.

She made as if to rise and go to him, but decided against it and remained seated, though she turned to the flap in the tent, listening to the sounds beyond it.

“What’s changed is that I’ve met Lady Stark, and heard from her about her son.” She began softly, hurriedly continuing when Loras opened his mouth as if to interrupt. “I’ve learned about the late Lord Eddard, and how he ruled his people and lands and even though she never said it to me, I heard all the same how he ruled with her. She had as much of a hand in the teaching of her son as he did, and she’s a very intelligent woman, as well as very strong, though grief might mask that to those who can’t see past sorrow.”

She gave Loras a pointed look then, and he flushed as if she’d hit on a sore point.

“Erstwhile, Joffrey would likely beat me, except for when he would mean to breed me. The genuine respect and admiration in the eyes and mouths of the people when they talk about King Robb, recommends this alliance more than our lady grandmother ever did. It only helps the decision that Cersei Lannister is in no way part of the bargain.” She ended it here with a question. “Now, do you see why, brother?”

Garlan didn’t need to be there to know his brother and his stubbornness would’ve allowed him to hear all that their sister said, and still obstinately fight the tide.

“No.” Was all he bothered with, and with a sigh their widowed queen sister turned to another.

“Garlan, please help our brother see why I would remain in Riverrun.” She looked at him with those imploring eyes, and stricken by a passing thought, he wondered if he reminded her of their father, who was famously weak to her tricks.

“No Garlan!” Loras barked. “Help me make HER see the sensible nature of my request!”

Both were irritating him with their loudness and demands, but he saw the merit in both.

_If we were to have Margaery vacate the plush chambers she was given in the castle, it would be a clear statement of the lack of faith we place in the Tullys of Riverrun, and their ability to keep her safe from harm. If we are to have a strong alliance with the Starks, it wouldn’t help us to so gravely insult their staunch southern vassals. And yet, the safety of my sister is more important to us than the alliance my grandmother championed, and though she’d wave away such public sentimentality, she’d most assuredly agree._

“I’m sorry Margaery, but Loras is right. We do want an alliance with the Starks, but we wouldn’t risk your health needlessly to achieve it.” The betrayed gasp she huffed out seemed entirely overdone to Garlan, but again, maybe it would’ve worked on their father. “Nevertheless, as we’re both mere knights, and you’re technically a queen, widowed but still crowned, you outrank us and need not bow to what amounts to mere suggestions from us, as of course we wouldn’t dare order a queen about.”

She fairly glowed at that, while Loras just settled on a glower that would no doubt carry over to the yard sometime in the near future.

The matter was settled then, though Loras made his displeasure known by ordering Teston and three other men at arms to escort their queen back to the castle, rather than bringing her himself, as he would’ve in the prior nights.

Garlan didn’t bother entertaining the thought of doing it himself, as he was still aching and visibly bruised from his introduction to the nightmare of Nymeria.

_My lovely sister would have to half carry me on the walk back, and I’d have to endure the shame of asking a Tully or northman warrior to assist me back here. I think not._

That was three days ago, and Loras still pouted and eyed the wolf as a potential pelt whenever he felt secure in the knowledge that the little princess wasn’t around.

Despite her affinity to the animal, and her initial treatment of him with her little pig stick blade, Garlan found himself liking the little wildling, despite himself.

She was a fearless little hellion, running everywhere with her silver companion at her side, forever getting into scrapes and messes, but she was honest and forthright in her dealings with people.

She’d call a knight stupid as soon as she’d call a servant the same.

Garlan would know, since he himself felt her whiplash temper when he chuckled at her little sword.

Her mother seemed to be prone to small moments of near hysteria whenever she went overlong without setting eyes on her daughter, but all it took was the pitter patter of fast feet and a scurrilous yell, and she’d relax.

The men of the castle took to her as if she’d been born there, and at times the wild little princess could be seen walking the ramparts with her hand tightly gripping the hilt of her blade, as if she were on watch herself.

The only problem with her was her insistence on being allowed to train in the courtyard with the men, and while none would normally refuse the requests of their lord’s granddaughter, her abominable pet was always present, and even the most reckless of men were tempered by the thought of accidentally hurting the girl and being ripped apart by the wolf, who likely wouldn’t understand the workings of a training yard.

It was during one of those tense moments in the yard that Garlan found himself agreeing with his crude man’s thoughts, for even though nobody had been foolish enough to spar with the girl, that hardly prevented her from sneaking away from the old septa and hiding in plain sight among the men, which meant her shadow was somewhere near, always moving, sniffing the air and then lowering its head, as if disappointed with what it gleaned from the air.

But on this day, the beast must’ve scented something it liked, for it perked up its ears and yipped like a puppy, before turning towards the main gate.

The little princess who was near his side stonily looking at the practicing men with the clearest envy in those slate grey eyes, turned as if half distracted, only to mirror her pet’s excitement when a tall young lord exploded through the gates, a cloaked form seated behind him and if possible, another direwolf on one side, only significantly larger than her beast and white as a fresh milk, with hot red eyes.

The people of the castle were hailing him, but the little princess was shoving through the crowd franticly, her desperation clear on her face as she fought the press.

“Jon!” She screamed without care, her wolf parting the crowd for her. ”Jon, it’s me, Arya!” She was beginning to sob as she made her way.

His head twisted to hear her voice and he swung down off his horse, beginning to stride towards the parting crowd, only to suddenly stop as if he remembered something important.

He turned jerkily, dazedly extending a hand up to the cloaked person who had been seated behind him, and she grasped his hand and verily jumped down, shoving back her hood to reveal a copper bright length of hair that had the crowd immediately kneeling in respect.

_By the Seven, it’s the older daughter! Princess Sansa has been delivered back to her family._

The little one stopped though to see the reveal, clearly unsure of herself now.

But Garlan wouldn’t let this opportunity pass.

Looking back to his men who were no longer beating at each other, he took in a deep breath, slightly wincing at the pain it produced before he addressed the Tyrell soldiers.

“Teston you fool, stop gawping and tell the Lady Catelyn that the Princess Sansa has come!” He shouted at the man who had paled alarmingly at the sight of yet another direwolf.

“At once ser.” Was all the man uttered before he turned and was running towards the great hall.

When Garlan turned back, the two sisters were clasping each other tightly, the older one whispering and running her hands over the smaller ones shoulders, while the little hellion was saying nothing, just hiding her face in her sisters neck, even while one small hand was being gripped by the tall young lord, who said nothing, just content to hold her hand and ruffle her hair in the nearly silent courtyard.

Nearly silent, but for the playful growls and snarls sounding against the castle walls as the two huge animals toiled and tussled together, knocking over people without care until the young lord snapped a single word and it ended.

“Ghost!” He barked.

At his disapproval, the bigger white beast gave a final half-hearted nip and lick to Nymeria and stalked off silently, stopping only to lovingly nuzzle and whine at the little girl for a moment before he continued on his way to wherever such beasts go.

The reunion in the courtyard was no less heartfelt now, than it was when it was just Lady Catelyn and her youngest, but after she came tearing out of the great hall, the Blackfish and Ser Wylis fast on her heels, slamming into her oldest daughter and dragging her into her arms, and pulling the hellion into the embrace as well, the lord with the wolf turned to yet another grim northman who had slipped into the gates very much undetected.

The slightly older lord who had a bloody banner tied to his horse smoothly dismounted, taking a moment to grasp the thick wrist of Ser Wylis and incline his head at Ser Brynden with the solemn regard of the battle bonded.

He cut a sweeping bow to the blissfully unaware Lady Stark with his soiled sunburst cloak swaying, before rising and looking even more severe, if that were possible as he turned back to the wolf lord, his face all seriousness.

“I would see him now, Lord Hoarfrost.” He rasped, his voice exceedingly harsh for one who was surely just approaching his twentieth nameday.

Lord Hoarfrost (what manner of name is that?) certainly knew his courtesies better than his companion for he tried to do as politeness would dictate.

“Lord Harrion, let us first make introductions for those of us who don’t know-.”

Whatever else he’d been about to say, something in the eye of Lord Harrion changed his mind.

“We’ll need to leave any weapons here then, my friend.” He warned reproachfully. ”My brother left clear orders for him to be watched at all times, and he can never be seen alone. So I’ll be the one to accompany you as well.”

The chilly young man agreed in his gravelly voice, and then both shed their arms and placed them in the hands of two waiting servants, with instructions said too low to be overheard. As they turned towards the keep, the princess Arya made to stop them.

“Jon?” She called out with a question in the tone from her twisted position in the three way hug.

Lord Hoarfrost just saw fit to hold up one hand, and then smiled reassuringly at her from afar, before continuing with his stoic companion.

With the wolf lord leading the way, they crossed the yard, the crowd opening and shutting behind them as they disappeared into a gloomy doorway.

_Jaime Lannister then._

_That’s who they’re going to visit. It’s easy to forget that he’s been here all this time, below our very feet, chained and disgraced. With both sisters now back in the hands of the Starks, his life means very little, beyond the possibility of a ransom._

_My lady grandmother would have a great many thoughts on this situation, but she’s not here, and even if she were, Lady Catelyn doesn’t strike me as the type to be cowed easily by sharp words and civilly vicious contempt._

Garlan had a great desire to go with them and look upon the infamous knight, but knew that it would never be allowed, and to ask and be inevitably denied would only work to fray what they rode all this way for.

Instead he turned and with a step that was slower and more gingerly placed than normal, but better than it was three days past, he made to find his sister.

He’d leave the charming period to Loras, seeing as the women always liked him better anyway.

 

 

 

Riverrun

 

Jon

_The old gods are said to be greedy and take much, but when it pleases them, they can give generously as well._

He still couldn’t believe they’d been fortunate enough to see the return of both of his sisters from the dangers of the south.

Especially considering they’d had no word of Arya since they learned of his father’s murder. Sansa they knew was in the lion’s den, but Arya had been presumed dead he knew, though none would dare say that aloud, for fear of their king’s wrath, or worse; his mother’s.

Nevertheless, most had thought her forever lost to the chaos of war in the worst possible way, with no closure to be had for those she left behind.

When he heard her scream his name in the courtyard, he’d felt a tightness he didn’t even know he carried release, and a degree of joy he wasn’t sure possible infused his body.

He’d actually felt his heart smile, even as his eyes moistened.

He’d wanted to hug her tight then and kiss her cheeks, for she’d have hated that in public, but the resulting face of disgust would’ve been worth it. Or maybe this has been such a trying time that for once she would allow the affection.

_By the weirwood she’s grown so much since I saw her last. Still skinny as a stick, but taller too, and with a lean strength in her, going by how much stronger her grip is now._

He was relatively eager to find a hot meal and a warm bed, along with his wife, who he hadn’t seen in three long weeks. He’d grown to miss her sweet voice and her soft warmth after all those days chasing and killing Lannisters and nights bedding down on the hard ground.

_She’d probably appreciate me more if I search out a bath before I seek her though._

It was funny, when he thought about it. He’d been married for a shade more than a month and a half, and had already known his wife physically in every way a man could possibly know a woman.

But a mere three week absence and he feels shyness when he thinks of seeing her again. He could only hope that Harrion Karstark wouldn’t be overlong in whatever he thought to get from looking on the man who killed his younger brothers. Jon himself couldn’t imagine the emotions his silent friend was struggling with at this moment.

_If anyone had dared to hurt or kill Bran and Rickon, I don’t know what I’d do myself._

Though Jon was partly eager to see the kingslayer himself, as the last time he remembered seeing him, he was a bright golden knight, arrogant, contemptuous and handsomely smug all at the same time.

_Let us see how a few months of Tully hospitality treats the overly proud and cruel._

The slow descent into the dank dungeons of the castle was silent apart from the scrape of leather boots on damp stone stairs, and the rampant scratching Lord Harrion was wont to do at times, and Jon was okay with that, for it gave him time to think on his lady wife awaiting his coming.

_We’ve not seen each other for nearly a month, and I hope she’s been better kept in the time apart than I have. Having been carted all over the riverlands and west, she must have welcomed the rich comfort of the Tully’s of Riverrun._

_Hopefully, one day it will be in my ability to provide comfort that she can rest on, and not the charity of others. I only hope that with the recovery of our sisters, this war might be soon brought to a close, and the true manner of the lordship Robb entrusted me with can begin in true._

Lord Harrion chose that moment to break the weighted silence, his iron voice sounding off the dark walls, as the periodically placed torches flickered with the small light they offered.

“Lord Jon, with the return of both your sisters, this changes everything. Tywin Lannister is dancing on the blade right now, and we’ve all the leverage we could ever ask for.” The young Karlhold heir mused grimly, even as he unconsciously scratched at his bushy, bearded neck.

The same thought had occurred to Jon when Harrion first requested they take time to visit down here, but he said the same thing to Harrion now, as he’d said inwardly to himself.

“Lord Harrion, my brother, our King Robb has all the leverage at the moment and it’ll be for him to decide how we’ll proceed from here, in light of these developments.” He reproached the lice ridden lord gently. “It does no good for us to settle our hearts on potential paths, when ultimately the final choice is out of our hands, my lord.”

Harrion sucked his teeth, the noise painfully loud in the gloom, and further down the stairs, the sound of chains rattling was heard.

“I know that Lord Jon, and everything I’ve seen and been told by a great many people tells me that the hands of our king are most capable, but it isn’t treason to ponder, only to do.” He insisted, even as the clanking of chains increased in volume. “You weren’t there at the battle of the Green Fork. I was, my lord. All saw how the Imp was placed in the vanguard with only his wildmen and very little else for support. A young soldier who I trained with from my youth nearly took him hostage, but for some bad business with a helmet. Lord Tywin cares as much for his second son, as he did for the hostages he took that day. My friend died in the march to Harrenhal, too low a hostage to count, but here in this castle, we’ve the only hostage that matters to Tywin Lannister. We can ask for a king’s ransom in gold, to use in the rebuilding of these lands, and the reinforcing of the north. Imagine, your castle built entirely with the gold gained from such an exchange?” He pressed; his light gray eyes brighter with excitement.

_The son lacks the blood thirst of the father, apparently._

Jon stopped on the last of the steps before the corridor leveled off and the cells of the imprisoned counted down the long hallway. He looked around to make sure that none of the ever watchful guards were in close proximity, before looking to the slightly older man with a question.

“You don’t wish to see the Kingslayer’s head on a spike for the deaths of your brothers, my lord?” Jon asked with a raised brow, trying and failing to keep the skepticism from his voice.

Harrion merely cleared his throat, and looked surprisingly sheepish for a man as solemn as he.

“My brothers died in battle Lord Hoarfrost, and that’s as brave an end as most can receive. Make no mistake, I loved my brothers, but it shames me to admit that their hearts were often as small and callous as often as they were brash and brave. In Winterfell, before we marched I remember them speaking unkind words about your brother who fell, and I regret to say that I even found some small humor in their jests.” He admitted, shame dulling the earlier shine in his eyes. But he never turned his gaze away as he stared into Jon’s eyes. “It was unworthy of them, and unworthy of me as heir of the Karlhold, to take amusement from the unfortunate circumstances of a small boy. It sullied them and I in Winterfell, and I feel that them giving all they had in defense of her first son was the evening of the scales. My penitence was found in the cells of Harrenhal, and the gods must have counted my dark days done, for I stand here now a free man, in the presence of the kin of him I wronged. The death of my siblings saw to the capture of the Lannister heir, and that can make a mighty change in a man. I ask you to forgive me, Jon, as I must one day ask the same of your younger brother.”

He finally dropped his gaze then, and turned his head to the side as if expectant of judgment.

Jon had clenched his fists at his side when he’d heard the man confess to japing at Bran’s expense, but then he remembered how he and Robb had at one point made fun of Hodor, in one of the rare occasions when Theon Greyjoy wasn’t around to ruin the mood.

They’d mockingly chattered the stable hand’s name back at him, and he’d went along with it, until something clicked and hurt had entered those big, simple eyes of his and he wandered off, with only a passing “Hodor” in farewell.

Both had felt guilty by then, and Robb had made to go after him to apologize, but Jon had grasped his arm and just shook his head.

Jon will never understand how his father had found out, but their summons to his solar was prompt, and his disappointment was tangible across the desk he ruled behind.

“Do you boys feel your actions were worthy of you, not as lords but as men in truth?” He quietly asked them, his gray eyes hard as steel. His form looked massive in Jon’s memories of that day, and his eyes watered briefly.

“Father, it was just a small jape.” Robb insisted, a pleading thread in his voice, asking their father to forgive them their childish moment. “We’ve never done it before, and we’ll never do it again, we promise.”

Jon just nodded at that, still pondering his actions and his father’s words about the worthiness of lords, when one of them was a bastard.

Lord Eddard Stark just sighed as he scrutinized them, and chose his next words carefully.

“My sons, a jape is just a jape, until it is made at the expense of one who cannot defend themselves. Then it has crossed over from a mere jape, and it has become cruelty.” He explained quietly. “My sons were not raised to partake in cruelty, and as such, a lesson in compassion will be tendered. You will see why it is poorly done to mock those you benefit from, and will not be tolerated in the sons of Winterfell. Leave me now, for the better.”

They filed out of his solar heavier than they’d be if he’d instead just shouted at them.

For the next three weeks, they were in charge of mucking out the stables and tending the horses, and lived not as the sons of the castle, but as the sons of the servants; bedding down in the small room in the back of the stables, and taking their meals in the outside, as they were often too filthy to be allowed in the hall.

Sansa had been aghast at their fallen status, but Arya seemed almost envious and was in their shadows whenever time allowed.

Robb had complained at first, as had Jon, but to a lesser degree as he knew that as a bastard, in any other castle this might’ve been his life.

By the end of it, they knew that a charmed life they lived and the opposite was the lot of Hodor, and all who served on their behalf.

It was that lesson that Jon drew on, and it seemed that the gods had been excessive in their weighing, for they took two young lives and left the third a man forever haunted by his experience, but the gods will as they wont.

Jon slowly stretched forth his arm and let his gloved hand rest on the broad shoulder of the shamed heir.

“Harrion, you did my brother no good with your laughter, but more importantly than that, you served King Robb as best you could, and that has done more good than whatever harm you think you did my brother Bran.” He patted the man on the shoulder twice and then withdrew his hand. ”As boys we all japed with callous tongues, but this war has made us men, and we put aside all hurts and ills of boyhood. You have my regard, as you did before you told me this. And I suspect Bran would tell you the same, for my little brother is the best of us. Now let us go see a devil in his chains.”

Not waiting for a response, he turned and strode onward; headed for the small cell he’d seen only once, and from the start of the corridor, rather than its end.

He nodded at the silent guardsmen rigidly at watch, no doubt roused from their resting benches that framed the banded oak door on either side.

He looked back briefly before nodding at the door, just to make sure Lord Karstark had joined him.

The silent northman was there at his back, his plank-span shoulders visibly taut, the strong chiseled jaw clenched below narrowed eyes. He gave a small nod, and then together they swept inside the dank, musty chamber.

Only to have rank, pungent spatter hit their boots and contemptuous laughter their ears as the over proud knight aimed his prick at their feet.

He’d obviously heard the footsteps outside his door, and anticipated that he’d soon have visitors, and thought to greet them warmly.

_A petty part of myself wishes I could’ve seen how this would’ve went if the glacial Lady Stark had come, but such disrespect of the woman my father loved, wouldn’t please even me._

While Jon was debating on how to proceed, Lord Harrion was inclined to be of the sort to take action, and he did, taking three swift strides and smashing the mangy man across the face with a brutal punch, sending him tumbling back into the wall, his chains rattling all the while.

Harrion merely turned his back to the fallen man then, breathing hard and clenching and unclenching his large hands in rhythm with his exhaling.

He loomed like a great big bat in the poorly lit cell, his shadow long and thick in the light of the one weak candle they allowed the knight.

_So he’s not quite as beyond the death of his brothers as he first put on. He’s not the great roaring fire his father is, but he’s not been entirely banked yet, either._

The man who suffered his wrath was now laughing with great body shaking force, having found it all a great jape, his laughter wet and thick as he rolled onto his back, holding his sides as he shook on his filthy pallet, rags clinging to him.

“I’m being beaten upon by dead men!!” He crowed with a hysteria laced guffaw. ”The ghosts of the honorable dead have come to welcome me to the seven hells! Eddard Stark himself, has come to see me to my rightful judgment! And the spirit of the sunshits! All dead, come again, just for me! An honor guard for the Kingslayer!” He laughed until he wept, blood coated over his lips and tears snaking through the filth caking his face.

Harrion turned and charged forward again, stopping only when Jon met him with both hands on his shoulders, shaking his head even as he stared into the mans eyes.

“Let the man have his japes, Harrion…” Jon mockingly admonished. “That’ll be all he has left to him now.”

Jaime Lannister slowed his violent humors then, winding them down until soft chuckles were the only sound in the tiny room.

“That and most of my teeth, bastard.” He snorted, sitting up even as he spat out a great bloody mouthful of spittle and what looked like cracked teeth in the dim room. He smiled roguishly at them; his formerly handsome mouth now stained a bloody red and bragging a missing front tooth, and a cracked remainder right next to it.

Jon was surprised the man remembered that much about his visit to Winterfell, when any time the man was there, he’d looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. Lannister wasn’t done though, for he continued without missing a beat.

“Not that bastards are quite so important to me, but with your face, your dour dead father announces himself to any who had the misfortune of knowing the frozen fool.” He said all this while smiling his monstrous grin.

It was Harrion’s turn to be the calm party; his vice grip almost painful when he latched it onto Jon’s shoulder as he unconsciously stepped forward.

“Easy Lord Hoarfrost, the shit seeks to get a rise out of us.” He warned gruffly. “Dance not to his tune. Soon enough the king will come, and decide his ultimate fate.”

Lannister had a confused look on his face at Harrion’s words, derision dripping from his countenance.

“Lord Hoarfrost? What kind of shitty house name is that?” He scoffed, his contempt enflaming Jon’s nerves. “I thought you and your ginger brother were close, bastard?!”

Jon didn’t trust himself to not respond violently, so he just held his tongue stubbornly, but Harrion was uncharacteristically talky, so he answered for him.

“House Hoarfrost is the reforging of an ancient northern house Lannister, vastly older than the Lannisters of Casterly Rock.” Harrion lectured solemnly. “The first acts of the house being the death of the Mountain Gregor Clegane and the same for Ser Addam Marbrand and many lesser warriors but most importantly, the rescue of Princess Sansa Stark.” He then smiled viciously at the swiftly paling pallor of the prisoner.

Lannister seemed shocked, his caddish smile no longer present, but a saddening expression replacing it.

“You killed Marbrand, Snow?” He asked softly, lowering his head to look upon his manacles instead of his jailers.

“No, Lannister. All my fight against Marbrand amounted to for him was a broken nose, while he gave me a great many small cuts and lessons for the yard.” Jon admitted baldly. “Lord Harrion here dueled and killed Ser Addam in single combat, and it was clear that the knight was sorely outmatched. He seemed as good of a sort as one can find in service to Lannisters, according to my sister who had the forced pleasure of his hospitality. Too bad he had to die so your bastard can claim a throne he has no right to.”

At the mention of Joffrey, the man had the grace to flush an angry red, showing clear through the coating of dirt covering him, before he slowly rose to his feet and faced them defiantly.

“The king is the king, and no amount of treason from you frozen shit curds will change the truth of that.” He brassed them plainly, tired by the news of his friends death. “Now leave me, for you’ve obviously done your gloating at my expense.”

Jon almost wished Harrion would hit him again, but the lord was quicker with his tongue, for he lashed him verbally now.

“You give no orders here kingslayer!” He snapped coldly at him, slashing his arm down as he said so, the sunburst on his cape rippling from the strength of the movement. “And we’ll be done when we’re ready to be done. And we merely answered the question you asked about House Hoarfrost. I’ll let Lord Jon tell you what we came here to share with you.”

The unshaved smelly knight just looked at Jon, and he felt a moment’s pity for the man, even as he damned him for everything he and his family had put the Starks through.

_If the situation was reversed and the Lannisters held all the cards, the emotion of pity wouldn’t even have a spelling in their books._

“Both my sisters have been recovered and brought back to the family.” He stated coldly, his eyes seizing the pale green gaze of the Lannister knight. “As have the prisoners your father took at the battle of the Green Fork. Your value is now nearly worthless, aside from whatever ransom King Robb might think to part with you for.”

Lannister was a brave man, no one could take that away from him, but in that poorly lighted cell, Jon beheld a man who saw his end drawing closer, and it nearly sank him.

Lannister sort of bowed into himself, looking smaller than Jon had ever seen him.

Again, hard fought pity swelled but Jon tamped it down.

The people who died for his whims required that he not shirk from this.

“As I said, King Robb might ransom you. Wagons full of Lannister gold can make all the difference in these lands, with winter looming.” Jon said quietly. The disgraced knight might’ve regained some color at that, but Jon’s next words had him befuddled again. “Or my brother the king might remember the names of Jory Cassel, Fat Tom, Aleren and Vayon Poole, Septa Mordane and so many others.” He finished harshly.

Lannister couldn’t have looked more confused at the list of names, gawping like a beggar, which was made more authentic by the gaps in his teeth.

“Speak sense boy!” He barked impatiently. “I’ve never touched a septa in my life, and if you try to blame some white robed crones death on me, I name you a liar!” He shouted, hoarse now.

“You had my father’s men killed in the street like they were dogs, and all for the emblems they bore on their breasts. Good men, loyal but honorable past that.” Jon said, glaring at the man, his hatred swelling as he remembered Jory ruling the training yard, but still always ready with a helpful tip or trick. Aleren and Fat Tom were good men as well, stout and staid in Ser Rodrik’s shieldwall exercises.

“And your sister and son had the household of Winterfell murdered when they took the Red Keep.” He accused his finger now under the nose of the tall knight. Lord Harrion was silent at his back, but Lannister felt his glower all the same for he turned away from both of them. Jon didn’t care, growling at his back in his rage.

“Your spoiled shit of a son had the first days of his rule marked by the murder of innocents. We would’ve ransomed them you evil shits!” He shouted now, the many dead of Winterfell now screaming with him, two hundred strong, warm northern accents in his ears, demanding he speak their cost.

“I wasn’t there boy, so don’t think to blame me for the lives lost when my sister consolidated the reign of my nephew.” Jaime defended weakly, even as Jon stepped menacingly closer to him.

“I blame you for the lives your son took, Kingslayer. I do, verily I do.” Lord Harrion said this, having been quiet for a while now. “So yes, we trust our king is wise, but we also hope he takes what is owed. You petty fucking Lannisters always speak of paying debts, so let me make it clear for you. You owe. Your vicious bitch sister owes. And your illbred son and monstrous father owe as well. Payment has already begun.”

Jaime Lannister only chuckled softly at this, rustling his chains as he turned to the wall and leaned against it, before sliding to the dirty pallet on the ground and setting his head back against it, as he shut his eyes and smirked.

“I don’t think you boys understand how that saying works. It’s our way of telling the realm that Lannisters always win in the end.” He prattled on blithely. “You’ve got your sisters back, bully for you Snow. My father will right this ship, and we’ll be at the forefront of the realm, as we were always meant to be.” He bragged confidently.

_The sheer balls it takes to make that statement, is what made him one of the best swords of the day. Still, a thoroughly unlikeable shit, Jaime Lannister is._

Jon couldn’t take anymore, and so he made to destroy the man’s supreme confidence.

“Your father invested the capitol in preparation for the coming of King Stannis with nearly twenty thousand men.” Jon stated plainly. “When he and his royal family fled it, it was with maybe five thousand men remaining to him. Between the outset of the war and now, the west has lost more than thirty thousand men, though our records tell us that your family began the hostilities with thirty five thousand strong. You’ve lost your armies, abandoned the throne and now your despot father flees west. You’re losing the war, and badly Kingslayer.” Jon ended it with relish, watching as the color again left his face, leaving only a ghostly tint to the man’s cheeks.

The fact that Jon was gloating over the deaths of thirty thousand men who had the misfortune of being at the call of such a house suddenly tipped the mood of the room from bitterly triumphant to just sad overall.

_I no longer wish to look upon this man. I’d rather see my wife’s sweet smile, and spend time with my little sister, who I haven’t seen in so long._

“Lord Harrion, do you have anything else to address to the prisoner?” Jon asked, weariness coating his query.

“No, Lord Jon.” He rasped. “I’ve looked on my brothers’ killer, and honestly find him wanting. My eyes need not see any more of this one.” He ended ruthlessly.

Not bothering to wait to see if the infamous knight had anything HE wanted to say, they turned as one and banged on the door, which was soon unlocked and opened.

The jailer took a summary glance at the prisoner to ensure he was in the same condition as when they first opened the door, and clearly satisfied, stepped aside and allowed their exit.

They walked in silence for a moment, before Jon remembered that Lord Harrion hadn’t been to Riverrun before.

“Lord Edmure will surely find suitable chambers for you, my lord.” He told the stoic man walking beside him. “After your captivity, the comforts of Riverrun will be sore appreciated, I’m sure.”

Lord Harrion just frowned slightly, before offering his own thoughts.

“They would be Jon, but if none are available, the Stark camp outside the walls will do fine. To live in freedom, after long being chained is no small joy.” He assured him stiffly. “But I will do my courtesies, as my lady mother taught us, may she rest well. Lead on, my lord.” He finished with a turn of his hand.

As they drew closer to the exit of the dungeons, they were met by the enormous form of the warrior lady who comported herself as the shadow of Lady Catelyn.

Lord Harrion to his credit didn’t stare overmuch, having been acquainted with the women of house Mormont, but he still took in a breath at the fact that she seemed to have him by at least two inches.

Jon had already measured himself against her, and knew that she outmatched him in height by four inches, whereas Robb only fell short one inch against.

_It’s good for a king to be a man of large standing, for the very appearance of strength is sometimes enough to lower sword and shield._

Lady Brienne was distinctly uncomfortable under Karstark’s perusal, though she must’ve been used to it by this point in her life. She hurriedly relayed her message, eager to vanish again into her lady’s background.

“The Lady Catelyn has asked for the presence of the Lords Hoarfrost and Karstark in the lord’s solar immediately. There’s been urgent news received by raven a day past, and you my lord have been specifically named in it.” She finished nervously, her big blue eyes firmly on Jon’s grey ones.

_She’ll not love me for this, but I doubt anything I can do would endear me to Lady Catelyn, so I might as well insist._

“I hate to stall meetings of politic, but I must delay for a while, at least until I’ve seen my wife, my lady.” Jon explained in a rational tone. “It’s been weeks since I’ve seen her, and since she’s here in this castle, I would see her and have her see me and know I’ve been well, as I learn the same of her.”

At this, the huge woman just shook her yellow head, even as she uttered the last words Jon expected to hear.

“My lord, I wish I didn’t have to share this with you, but you must be told. Your lady wife isn’t here.” She stated quietly, the soft concern in her eyes doing nothing against the fact that she had just toppled his mind with her absurd statement.

He barked out a hysterical laugh until he caught himself and with a glare fixed the woman to the wall. “Surely you jest. Weeks ago, I left my wife here, in the safekeeping of the Lord of Riverrun, and you tell me today, she’s not here.” He growled, angry now. “Where else would she be but here, milady?!” He demanded hotly, Lord Harrion placing a heavy hand on his shoulder as a warning.

“Come to the solar my lords, and hear what news has come, and mayhap all will be made clear.” She offered stolidly. “I’m a stranger to you, and it wouldn’t do for me to share such news with you, here in these dungeons.” She gave a stiff bow and turned away, her steps sure and long.

Jon remained there for a moment, fuming as questions raced through his mind, while a flame of wrath crackled to life in his stomach.

_The woman knows, but won’t do me the good of setting my fears at ease. She’ll leave it to her pinch faced mistress to have me dancing impatiently to her tune._

The hand that Harrion still had on his shoulder squeezed him firmly, as he gently urged him onward and upward.

“Come Lord Jon, let us follow.” He suggested with iron lacing his tone. “You’ve questions that deserve real answers, and I’d hear the words of the king, and maybe even see the maester about sending some of our own In turn, so my lord father might know that at least one of his sons yet still lives.”

With a final squeeze, Lord Harrion exited the gloom into the still bright afternoon light, his direction mirroring the path the tall woman took.

“So fucking petty.” He spoke into the empty darkness, before following them into the now uncrowded courtyard.

 

                                                                                *******

 

Lord Harrion waited for him outside the solar door, not bothering with any words when Jon joined him, but his eyes were calm and relieved.

Harrion raised a brawny fist and then knocked, and being hailed from the inside, they stepped within.

The first thing Jon noticed was how hot the room was, especially with the windows being closed and shuttered on a hot summer day.

The second thing he learned was that not all solars are created equally spacious, for this one could fit into his fathers, no Robb’s back in Winterfell at least three times over.

Also it was clear that the Tullys were afraid men might forget their sigil was a trout, for it was represented everywhere in the room.

It was sewn into the chair padding on which the notable men and women of the south now sat upon, and had been carved into the woodwork of the desk that Lord Edmure Tully sat behind patiently. It was threaded into the tapestries that hung from the walls, and small wooden works depicting the sigil were placed at various points on the surface of the desk.

Lady Catelyn Stark sat behind her brother in a small chair, her bright blue eyes lacking their usual frostiness she gave off whenever Jon found himself under her regard.

Her giant was behind her, armored and armed to the teeth, but with sympathetic eyes resting on Jon.

Ser Brynden Tully and Ser Wylis Manderly were on opposing sides of the room, the former running his tongue over his teeth inside his mouth, and the other looking down and cracking his knuckles with pursed lips, the loud snaps the only sound in the room aside from Lord Edmure shuffling papers on his desk.

Harrion smoothly shut the door behind them, his doing so rewarded with a loud click as the lock caught.

Lord Edmure was clearly trying to be a man of briskness, for he waited to hear the latch before opening his mouth and starting the meeting.

“Good. As we’ve all gathered here, it’s time to share the news that we know of the greater northern kingdom, as we seem to be called these days. We received a raven from the Hornwood, where they hosted King Robb maybe a few days ago, for he-.” Edmure was cut off then when his sister stretched a hand and touched his shoulder, and when he twisted to look at her, she cut her eyes at Jon and then back to him.

The cue accepted, the Lord of Riverrun spoke again, this time directly addressing Jon.

“Lord Hoarfrost, forgive me for not remembering you, I meant nothing by it.” He reassured warmly. “My lord, your wife isn’t here in truth. My uncle Ser Brynden told us of how the Freys abandoned you close to a week ago in the middle of the night. Well, when they rode off from you, they did the same to us. And they counted your wife among their number my lord. I can’t say whether she was forced or willing, but it changes little now. She’s gone from here. And not to overshare before we get to the raven, it seems they did the same to the king. Rode off without much in the way of an official word of why, though King Robb writes his men say they shouted of betrayal. Riders from Seagard have come, telling me of a host of men inhabiting the Twins. We’re watching for them even now, but I can’t imagine Lord Frey truly trying anything, as with Lannister power broken, who would he hide behind?”

Jon just glowered at the room at large, fury trickling through his veins at the thought of his wife being kidnapped, for all intents by her kinsmen.

_I gave her my cloak, my name and my promise. And then these men disregarded it all and forced her away. If her wretched grandfather thinks to undo what was pledged, he must be addled in his withered wits._

Lord Edmure broke into his dark thoughts with more news, a small balm to the smoldering burn of Jon’s agitated emotional state.

“King Robb has been a very busy man while in the north. He won a sizeable victory against the Ironborn besieging Moat Cailin, where Victarion Greyjoy was killed. Not satisfied with that, he has hung Ramsay Snow and beheaded his father Roose, effectively ending House Bolton.”

Lady Catelyn and the Blackfish were unmoved, clearly having been exposed to the contents of the letter beforehand, but Ser Wylis snapped his head up in astonishment, shock etched into his broad face.

Harrion was little better, a sharp whistle slicing through the room from his twisted lips.

Jon controlled himself better, but was still rocked to his core, never having expected Robb to take such drastic action when he brought the news of Ramsay’s dealings south.

_He’s ended House Bolton, a house that has stood strong in the north for around eight thousand years. I figured he’d hang Ramsay, and exact a portion of Bolton wealth to punish the man. He did so much more than that though. The lineage of the Red Kings of the Dreadfort are done, and for the sake of a bastard son. What do his storied lords think of such a move? With one move, he’s told the kingdom that an old name won’t save you, if your behavior isn’t worthy of it._

“As such, King Robb has divided up the former Bolton lands as he saw fit, firstly between the Houses immediately bordering them. Houses Hornwood, Flint and Karstark have all benefited from this.” He said with a speculative eye landing on Harrion, who to his credit didn’t allow a flicker of emotion ripple over his face. Not seeing what he had wanted, Edmure continued strongly, with perhaps a shade of resentment coloring his words.

“As well as House Blackwood. The second son of Lord Tytos Blackwood, Lucas Blackwood has been given a sizeable portion of what were the Bolton lands, consisting largely of the land sweeping from the Lonely Hills to Long Lake. He will henceforth from now be known as Lord Lucas Lonewood, and the instrument of the Blackwood’s return to the north, as a loyal northman.” He said with a frown puckering his features.

_Robb has been very busy indeed. Sewing this new kingdom’s loyalties together, making a tapestry of one from the two. While being wise all the while, and never letting any footholds form for dissent. He’s made what many would call a southron a northman, but he made sure he had first men roots and ways, and even better has him ringed on all sides by houses he’s made even more loyal._

The present northmen, Jon excluded, weren’t exactly happy about the last development, but either accepted the wisdom in holding their tongues, or just saw the futility of complaining to a room stacked with the kings most supportive relatives.

Ser Wylis clearly had a craw stuck in his throat, for he soon interjected himself most presumptuously into the discussion.

“How long are the roses going to be here, my lord?” The huge blonde man demanded rudely.

Lady Catelyn looked fit to pounce, her jaw clenched as if it were a mighty struggle to refrain from dressing down the Manderly knight for his impertince, but Jon was glad someone had asked what he’d been wondering about.

His sister might not be willing to tolerate the disrespect, however unintentional it was, but Lord Edmure was hard to ruffle, it seemed.

“As long as it takes for the king to rejoin us here ser, for they’ve come with the intent to ally with us.” He explained calmly. His blue eyes flashed to Jon then. “My nephew’s ruse worked too well. Him allowing his brother to play at mummery in the south, made them think it would be shortly done. They’ve since remained our guests, but were conscientious enough to have brought their own stores and supplies, keeping the burden on their gardens.”

“Arya complains of the simpering handmaidens of the queen endlessly, and I must admit, they’ve made me prick my finger once or twice while sitting at needlework.” Lady Catelyn admitted loyally.

Ser Brynden laughed in his smoky way, even as he turned a hard eye to Ser Wylis.

“I’d much rather sit and be surrounded by a thousand young chits, flitting and witting about knights and songs, than have to worry about their lord fathers and brothers and the men who follow them marching up the Rose Road beneath the united banners of the lion and the rose, armed with lance, sword, axe and spear, preceded by twenty thousand knights and men at arms ahorse. Let them stay and make these lands smell sweet with roses, to cover up the stink of Lannister fires.”

Ser Wylis just flushed and went back to cracking his knuckles, the only indication of his displeasure being the renewed pursed push of his lips.

“Lord Edmure, is there anything more?” Lord Harrion asked grimly, a perturbed cast to his face.

“As a matter of fact, Lord Harrion is it, there is.” Edmure tripped over the name, making it sound more like Hay-re-in, than the actual Hair-re-in. “Robb has sent a strong portion of Hornwood laborers north to the Karlhold to help with the bringing in of the harvest, while Galbart Glover was tasked with driving the remaining ironmen from the Stony Shore and Deepwood Motte. Robb rides to make sure Winterfell is settled and past that to aid Glover and then he will return south to end this war once and for all.”

The room was empty of sound for a second, and then the Blackfish gave his first thoughts of the meeting.

“Seems to me, we need to see about telling the king that the war against the Lannisters in the south is nearly won, but for the finishing of details, like the blonde haired, green eyed one enjoying the choicest chamber in my brother’s castle.” He offered conversationally, his eyes finding those of his niece behind her brother.

Who in turn looked at Jon and Harrion with suspicion emanating from her bright eyes.

“My lords, might I ask your purpose in visiting with Lannister?” She asked politely enough, but there was a shrewish cord to her question, in Jon’s ears at least.

Harrion, who’d been frowning as he leaned against the door straightened then, and took a small step forward, into the light.

“Lady Catelyn, I merely expressed to Lord Hoarfrost on the way to Riverrun that I was of the desire to look upon the man who killed my brothers. Lord Jon just supervised the visit.” He explained.

“And that was all it was, my lord Karstark?” Edmure asked now, a piercing glint in his eyes.

Harrion looked to Jon then, for support or condemnation, he didn’t know. But Jon gave his own testimony.

“That was all, my Lord Tully and my Lady Stark.” He choked a bit on that last part, and her eyes flashed but she said nothing.

“All is well then, lads?” Ser Brynden asked with a conspiring tone, the bright white teeth gleaming in his bearded mouth.

Both nodded, but Lady Catelyn wasn’t satisfied.

“All is clearly not well Uncle!” She snapped, and for a moment her hidden grief welled up and threatened to overtake her. “Lord Jon.” She bit out, as if the title uttered was an acorn in her throat. “What if I told you that a drunken Jaime Lannister admitted two things to me and a witness that matters much, and that the king hasn’t yet been told? One, that he threw my son Bran from the tower of Winterfell because he saw the Lannister twins coupling there? And to follow, that all three children of the queen are in fact, his and that is why Lord Stark died. What would you say then?” She hissed in anguish and wrath.

Jon felt himself giving way to those emotions himself, as he thought on his little brother lying abed with only the gods knowing if he’d ever wake again. The man had stood in their faces and bluntly lied about his part in the royal family’s infamies.

He had entered their home, ate their food and nevertheless had made to try and kill the son of his host, to cover up his ill-aimed lusts.

And then, the knight still had the nerve to be smug about his supposed Lannister superiority.

“I’d say Lannisters lie, but they can die as well, my lady.” He bitterly ground out, not even realizing he’d clenched his fists until Harrion from behind, shoved him down into a padded chair none too gently.

“And yet we can do nothing, at least until the king returns and gives his judgment.” Edmure reminded the room, firmness dripping from every word.

Jon could only be reluctantly glad that this meeting had been called after Harrion had insisted they see the Kingslayer, for if Jon had known any of this before the visit, he didn’t rightly know what he’d do when he laid eyes on the man.

“Ser Uncle, have any of your men brought news of the whereabouts of the small host Tywin Lannister led into the riverlands?” Edmure demanded with frustration evident in his voice. “I can hardly believe that near three thousand men just disappeared into the mists. Surely there’s been a sighting somewhere, ser.”

Blackfish just stared back at his nephew, and Jon felt a frisson of pity for the lord.

_They live well, shielded from poverty and lack, and sleep in comfort and eat the best of foods. All that is asked of them is that they fight well and rule well, and while his heart is well meaning, he’s proven himself poorly in martial matters. And for that, he’ll likely always be mocked and japed about by those who would respect him otherwise._

“No, Edmure.” He coolly informed the man behind the desk. “Nothing as of yet, though I’ll make sure to tell you as soon as I hear of him rearing his bald head.”

Lady Catelyn sighed deeply then, and at the sound, her brother swiftly ended the meeting with the excuse of allowing his sister to enjoy her returned daughters.

The room emptied rapidly, the two knights leaving briskly, and Lord Edmure departed with Lord Harrion plying him with questions about the rookery, leaving only Jon who was still corded and clenched in his chair, and Lady Catelyn who shook with unshed tears.

He ponderously rose, wondering how much anger a man can carry before he does harm to himself or another.

As Jon made to leave, she called out to him softly.

“Lord Hoarfrost, a moment if you would.” She wetly entreated, knowing full well he’d give his father’s wife all the respect she’d denied him through the years.

“I wept to see Arya when my uncle brought her back to me, and the same thing happened today, when you rode in with Sansa. I thank you Jon and I know that if your father was here, he’d do the same without any reservation, so please, allow me to do it in his stead.” She pleaded softly, her eyes limpid with emotion.

Jon nodded his assent, unsure of where this was going until she hesitantly opened her arms to him.

He wavered then, not knowing how to handle this but she took the choice from him.

Lady Catelyn Stark, the woman Jon had feared since he was old enough to understand who he was and who she was not, enclosed him in her surprisingly strong embrace and hugged him tightly, ignoring his stiffness and lack of reciprocation. Her hair tickled his nose, and he sneezed, embarrassed then only for the feeling to heighten when he felt a wet drop hit his cheek on the left, and then the right and soon he was weeping silent tears, knowing and uncaring that they must’ve been felt through her gown. She squeezed him tight one last time, and stepped back, wiping her own reddened eyes, and then swept past him, leaving the door open as a polite form of dismissal.

Jon simply stood there for a while, willing his tears to cease on his cheeks. He patted them, and finding them sufficiently dry, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

He thought to seek out the chamber he and his wife had shared when they first came to this castle, but then decided not to.

_My anger is still fresh, and seeing that may well grow the fires._

He even thought of looking for Arya, but decided to do Lady Catelyn a good turn by not interrupting her time with her daughters.

Rather than that, he turned and made for the castle godswood, though Robb had warned him that it was not a patch on the one he was most familiar with back in Winterfell.

He found himself stepping softly through the light, airy wood, taking note of the elms and birch trees that dominated the length of the space, searching for the bone colored heart tree, missing Winterfell more than he’d ever did before.

He passed Alp as the older warrior loped out, his long stride eating the ground beneath his feet. The bandage that still covered the right side of his face was just the latest trophy he’d hopefully bring back from the south, won in the battle that saw the return of Sansa.

It didn’t cover enough of his face to hide the pouting annoyance that was stamped into his demeanor.

“Milord, a warning. The rose queen is here, and she and her maidens have been pestering every northman who’ll stand still to piss for information about the king.” The big northman complained in exasperation. “I had to cut my prayers short, for she was always in my face with a queer smile. These southrons, milord.” He said in a fond sort of confusion, shaking his head at their perceived oddities.

Jon could only smile at that, but he was undaunted.

“Thank you for the warning Alp, but I’ll brave these woods all the same. But you can go prepare for the feast; for I’ve heard there’ll be a great celebration for the return of the Princess Sansa.” He advised the big man.” Not waiting to see the man off, Jon continued his walk, heading off the way he’d seen Alp approach from.

Only to have a huge white blur tackle him roughly to the ground, the devil bearing down with licks at his face and worries at his fingers.

_It’s not as if I weren’t planning on washing and presenting myself suitably after a hard day of riding. All the same, thanks Ghost. It makes a newly raised lord feel as a lord should to possibly be introduced to a refined queen of gentle sensibilities while looking as if he’d just been making mud cakes like a peasant child._

Playfully shoving the beast off with chuckles and empty threats, Jon rose, dusting himself off and looking about for any witnesses. With a snort to bring Ghost to his side, the two set off in search of the weirwood heart tree together, Jon partially relieved by the sudden presence of his other half, for certainly a lady of the reach would rather stay out of the way of such an animal.

When the pair cleared a small birch cluster, he finally saw what he’d been looking for ever since he entered the godswood.

It was an exceedingly small weirwood tree, though with only Winterfell’s to measure against, perhaps it wasn’t a fair comparison.

_Still, it would serve well enough._

Jon drew his sword and planted it into the soft earth from which the thick white roots drew their sustenance as he knelt in front of it, his head bowed before the hands that tightly gripped the pommel.

_May the gods of my father and his father hear my thanks for the safe return of my sisters from the hands of those who would do them harm. May those same gods watch over and keep my brothers from whom I am so far, in lands I know not. May they keep me, and make me worthy of the trust my brother has placed in me, and the trust of the people who look to me, not the least being my lady wife. I ask that you allow me to know her, and I promise to send the red rivers you sup on if you do. This I ask._

Finished, rather than stand, he instead turned and placed his back against the tree and crossed his legs, thinking on the history that had been witnessed by this very tree. Ghost curled up at his side, his heavy heard warm as he laid it across Jon’s thighs, expecting and receiving a gloved hand gently clutching the thick fur between his ears.

He knew Robb had prayed here after his first two victories of the Whispering Wood and the freeing of Riverrun, but even past that, he suspected others in his family of looking upon this tree.

His uncle Brandon had been the original betrothed of Lady Catelyn Tully he knew, though it wasn’t spoken of much. Still, the phantom uncle he’d never met had visited her here, in her girlhood home. He must’ve walked these same woods.

_As did my father in his youth, during the bloody days of his own rebellion. I know he was wed in the sept, but my father wasn’t the type of northman to not seek his gods before such a momentous occasion. In the period of time before he met my mother._

Jon still felt that old ache at times.

He knew that Robb had done him a great honor, making him a great lord of the north, and given him a future that would matter, even at the cost of him risking his lords’ jealousies. Yet, to not know where you come from is a sour thing, in truth.

_If my mother was common, her son’s risen high; beyond any possible understanding. If she was noble, I’ve been made an equal. But I’ll not know now. Joffrey shut that door as securely as he did the chance of peace. If the power Robb has given me will do anything, it will see that little shit dead._

Jon wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, or how long he was in that condition, but it was taken from him by the loss of Ghost’s reassuring warmth from his lap, and he awoke to discover that where only two had been before, it now counted several.

He opened his eyes to see Ghost sitting up beside him, his large white head turning slightly to appraise the group descending on them with curiosity burning in those red, intelligent eyes.

The Tyrells had come in force it appeared.

He saw no less than four knights walking in an unbroken line towards him, their hands loosely touching their arms as they looked upon Ghost with distrust grasping their hearts. They were the shield before a gaggle of comely young women, but then he realized, one obviously must be the queen that Alp was so nattered by.

He looked at them all, similarities present throughout the young fair faces, but one stood out, by both bearing and dress.

Queen Margaery Tyrell, untouched widow of Renly Baratheon wore a gown of an astounding richness, gold and green embroidered satin and a fine felt twisted together into some layered manner of fashionable enchantment that Jon suspected only a lady as refined as Sansa could appreciate.

_Arya would scream bloody murder if we tried to force her into that horror of ties and ribbons. But maybe that’s just the Arya of today. Maybe by the time she reaches this girl’s age, she’ll be of a more tractable nature….The age of the queen being maybe two years older than I, which makes her one year greater than Robb……I think._

Jon was content to merely look his fill in loose fascination, until he remembered that he was doing all his scrutinizing from his arse on the ground.

He shot to his feet in a gangly, boyish manner, pushing his one hand against the ground and the other to the tree and shoving himself up, eliciting a few high pitched giggles from the Tyrell party, only to have it hushed with a low but firmly spoken word from the queen.

Her guards came first, orbiting Jon and always keeping themselves between Ghost and their charge in a loose arc, eyes never leaving the white wolf.

As if sensing that his being there only made things tense, the wolf nosed Jon’s closest hand and then loped off, a white shade vanishing into the foliage around them.

The company of roses watched him go, the soldiers warily, and the queen and her ladies in something like consternation, though she soon poo pooed them away herself, leaving just her guard as her watchers as she made to approach Jon.

“Lord Hoarfrost, is it?” She offered her voice clear and chirpish, like the tinkling of the small bells Sansa used to tie into her doll’s hair with ribbons, when she was Brans age. She sounded like what Jon had always imagined a highborn southron lady should sound like, though not in an annoying way.

“Forgive me, my lord, but as you too keep a direwolf as a pet, I must assume you’re the brother of the king that everyone has been speaking about. Lord Eddard’s natural son, is it?” She asked in a melodious voice, no contempt in her words that Jon could discern. “I’d asked Lady Catelyn about her family, and she always mentioned her two youngest sons, and her oldest daughter, but never an older son besides the king, so I must be correct. Am I, my lord?” She quested sweetly, though the bright gleam in her brown eyes told him that she knew very well who she was speaking to.

_Why must they keep cute?_

“I am who you believe me to be, your grace, being born Jon Snow of Winterfell.” He stated curtly, cursing inwardly as her eyes slightly widened in surprise at his manner.

He had never gained the easy confidence with women that his brother had carried off effortlessly, and speaking with a queen was only making it more apparent.

When Cersei Lannister had visited Winterfell with the king, he didn’t think she even knew he was alive, so to have this queen, who brought with her eighty thousand men, deign to speak to him even as a legitimized bastard, only caused him to be more prickly and on edge.

She had a forthright manner, not shying away from looking a person directly in the eye when she addressed them.

“But I must inform you that the wolves that walk beside us are not there as pets, but as our other half’s.” He said in a much smoother tone, trying to speak in a charming mien, as he’d seen Robb do many a time with the daughters of visiting lords.

One of the guards who stood a few meters away scoffed in derision at that, but she just sent him a look and turned back to Jon, interest clear in her eyes.

“Please, do go on my lord.” Was all she said, and so he did.

“Well your grace, we’ve found that our wolves reflect the things that make us who we are ourselves more than a simple pet ever could.” He shared, taking the risk of standing beside her and contemplating the heart tree as they spoke.

“Take Nymeria for example, as she walks beside my youngest sister. Always ready for a fight, that wolf is, and as bold as only Princess Arya can be. Princess Sansa had a wolf of her own as well, and she called her Lady. The gentlest and best behaved of the six pups my brother and I found so long ago. She was killed at the request of the Lannister woman, the first of her brutalities against my family.” He finished, bitterness ringing through his tone.

“And your Ghost, as I’ve heard him called….How does he take after you, Lord Hoarfrost?” She asked with a smile, forcing his thoughts away from the evil blonde woman and her cruel whims.

“As a bastard, I learned to keep my thoughts and opinions to myself, except for when I was around those who made little distinction of birth. Ghost is the same in that way, I’ve been told, for he is vigilantly silent and watchful, and quiet enough to earn his name.” He said with a fond pride swelling his chest. “He even snarls mutely, only pulling back his lips to bare his teeth, but without the sound to match. It’s most unnerving I imagine, for even as a pup he scared off full grown hounds with such tactics.”

She giggled, which then turned into an unladylike snort and then a hoot, only to have it be visibly smothered when she fought and succeeded in regaining her composure.

“Forgive me, Lord Jon. That’s just a very funny scene to place in one’s head.” She pleaded, even as she wiped her eyes in embarrassment.

“What about the king and his Grey Wind?” She demanded playfully, the hunger in her voice blatant as she supped on the details he was offering as she studied the weirwood.

“My brother the king is perhaps the best man I know, born a lord but the man most suited to kingship I’ve ever seen.” He told her, pride and love suffusing his words. ”I remember my father feasting King Robert and his accursed family in Winterfell, and I observed Joffrey in the yard and about the castle. I see why King Robert was mortally wounded while drunkenly hunting a boar, and I also see why Joffrey has lost the realm he was raised to rule. Robb is so much greater than they. King Robb is the best of men, for our father was the best of lords. That’s why he is the only king in the realm who was raised by his men, rather than his ambitions. Grey Wind is a reflection of that. He’s the largest of the direwolves and the strongest too. My Ghost is a close second, but the wolf of the king has the rule of the pack. And he rules it almost as well as my brother rules his realm.”

She looked away from the tree then, and her eyes nearly glowed as they fell on him.

“You love your brother then. Without reserve it seems.” She stated, relieved at some test he’d passed.

“My brother loves me, even in my natural born condition.” He countered vehemently, his accent getting rougher in his passion. “He made me a great lord, and then trusted me to act in his stead, while he set issues to right in the north. It was with his regard at my back that we killed the monster, Gregor Clegane. It was with his trust in my ability that we defeated Ser Addam Marbrand and recovered my sister the princess. It’s only the best of men, who can look beyond the lines of birth and just see ones worth.” He ended it on a quiet note, sheepish at the impassioned response her questions had aroused in him.

“There is no shame in loving someone who is worthy of it, my lord.” She stated softly. “It recommends him all the more, what I hear people, and now his closest kin say in his favor. He allows women to war alongside him; he rewards ability, and trusts the competent to act well. He does his duty to his people.” She shook her head slightly, a befuddled look on her face. “If such qualities are rampant in the Starks, why do we in the south disregard them as frozen barbarians?”

_Why indeed, is the question. Men frozen and trapped in the grey bleakness, they say of us._

“My father was fostered in the Vale, and he shared with us that in his youth he was constantly japed about as a frozen wolfpup, more used to snow, hale and wildmen than the more civilized south.” He reminisced, old memories flitting through his mind’s eye. “He told us he ignored the japes and jibes, for he knew what his forefathers knew. The virtues he lived by would allow him to last in the hard winters, and more importantly, they would help him make sure his people would last. King Robb might not tell the wittiest joke, though he’s much better at it than I, but he was raised to endure, as all the Starks were. For we well know the bite of winter, your grace. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get ready for the feast I’m sure my uncle will hold to celebrate my sister’s return.” He bowed stiffly and turning on his heel, walked away back towards the castle.

 

                                                                                *******

 

The night had proven Jon correct, as Lord Edmure had held a minor celebratory feast, to herald the return of the last of his eldest sister’s missing children.

It was smaller than the one that had welcomed his uncle and niece back to Riverrun, Jon was told by a somewhat disappointed Wylis Manderly, but that was only to be expected.

They’d held a feast only a few days prior for Princess Arya, and the effect of two nearly consecutive feasts likely would’ve been drastic on their stores and granaries, considering the state of the overall riverlands and the many starving and burned out.

_I wonder if it was Lady Catelyn showing that restraint, or her uncle browbeating her brother into sensible frugality. Whoever had the idea, these lands will need more of a similar mind in their immediate future._

He’d sat at the table on the dais, next to Arya who was on one side of her mother, with the returned Princess Sansa on the other side. Lord Harrion had the seat of honor next to Sansa, and his entrance into the great hall had caused quite a stir.

Jon hadn’t been sure who the tall man next to his sister was, until he stood to bow to the rose queen and Jon saw the white sunburst stitched onto his new doublet. The man was as bald as a babe, having taken a razor to both his head and his face.

Totally absent any hair, he’d been given ripples of laughter from the less refined lower tables, while at the high seat, it was politely ignored, though Jon had to nudge Arya twice to rid her of her staring. He’d been offered the seat of honor next to Sansa, but knew Arya wouldn’t forgive him if he sat anywhere else but next to her, available for her questions all night long.

He fielded them ably, circumspectly cleaning up his answers about the dangers of battle and the realities of living with an army, while evading the demands about his sudden marriage and just what his wife was like, and did he think she would like her or not. That last one had thrown him for a loop, for he never really gave it a thought, if she would like his little sister, or just tolerate her presence.

_I just sort of assumed that since I love Arya, she would too. But in truth, I really don’t know my wife. I know her pleasure and her form, but that which makes her, I am woefully uninformed. She might take to Sansa more than Arya, and wouldn’t that be an odd turn for me?_

Thankfully, the high table was also shared by the Tyrells, who he’d been told has generously helped out with the food, so in the interest of not being the uncouth savage the queen had baldly admitted the greater south saw them as, he was forced to acquaint himself with the rest of the roses. Her elder brother, Ser Garlan was a good sort, as tall as Jon but much broader and a few years older, friendly with an open, round face with the same eyes as his sister. He was clearly uncomfortable, moving with a slow pained gait, but he didn’t let that stop him from mingling with the guests.

His famed brother however was a different sort, glowering at the direwolves that shared the dais with them, though they were towards the back and out of the way, each given half roasted haunches to devour. The man clearly didn’t trust the animals, though he was an afterthought for them.

The famous knight wasn’t particularly tall Jon saw, maybe four inches shorter than he, and slim with a comely face that leaned towards a girlish prettiness.

He saw Sansa try and engage the knight in polite conversation a few times, only to be disabused with half-hearted interest and indifference, though his sister scowled prettily at him when she thought none would notice.

Sansa took the hint and then turned to Lord Harrion, laughing softly at his gruff manner and in general, treating him as if he wasn’t the touchy, prickly man that Jon himself had thought him to be, at first.

She was even able to get a few small smiles out of him, which combined with his lack of hair, made him in Jon’s eyes resemble something like a chisel chinned happy baby, which apparently Arya felt as well, for she laughed long and loud before an exasperated glare from her mother had her clapping her hand over her mouth, muffling her giggles.

It seemed like it went on forever, the Tyrell cousins dancing about the floor with the Tully knights, and even Ser Wylis took a few turns about the floor with a simpering maiden in his arms. Jon just talked quietly with Arya and Ser Garlan most of the night, offering the barest minimum to Ser Loras who most noncommittally grunted his way through the night, until Lord Harrion told Jon he’d honor his request for a few rounds in the yard on the morrow.

Ser Loras perked up at that, and even Ser Garlan gave up a painful chuckle at his brother’s swift mood change.

So it was, the next day in Riverrun’s training yard that Jon was severely taken to task by Lord Harrion Karstark. Both were kitted out in the best training armor the castle could provide on short notice, but it amounted to little in Jon’s estimation. Jon bore a greatsword and shield, Harrion eschewed the defense and only relied upon his blade, a one handed bastard sword with a dulled dagger at his waist.

Arya, Ser Garlan and Ser Loras, and a few score of Tully and Tyrell warriors watched Jon get beat around the yard tirelessly for at least an hour. He fought hard, hammering and hacking and shield charging at the Karstark heir and scoring grimaces and grunts, but the older youth must’ve been born with a sword in his hand for he was just too good.

The hacking cuts Jon sent his way, he caught with his dulled sword edge easily, flicking his left wrist and sending Jon reeling to the side. The shield charges he first tasted against Ser Addam, Jon threw at him, only for the man to counter and sweep around, tapping the sword against the back of Jon’s calves and marking him.

He stopped when he felt he’d learned enough of the man’s habits for the day, sweat causing his tunic to stick to his back, and swollen knuckles lightly bleeding from the many raps he was given for letting his guard drop.

He stepped away from the clave, making for the water trough and the ladle with Arya hot on his heels. He spooned a few cups into his mouth, closing his eyes and ears to Arya’s impatient chatter, only opening his eyes again when he’d sipped his fill. Refreshed, he walked back through the crowd of warriors with his sister in tow, only to be shocked by the sight of Harrion back in the clave, only rather than waiting to fight Jon again, he was engaged in a test of steel against the Knight of Flowers.

_This is what a true test of mettle for the sword called should at least begin to look like._

Harrion was locked into an intense spar with the pride of Highgarden, and the northman was confidently holding his own.

Jon saw just how much he’d been holding back for Jon’s sake now, as the tall, rangy lord met the furious silver slashes of the reach knight. Jon was tempted to give the edge in speed to Ser Loras, but strength to Harrion until with a frown the Karlhold heir switched hands and the speed of his sword increased. Ser Loras was put off by the maneuver, and his form became sloppy as he was forced to change the way he approached the northman.

_He was fighting me with his lesser hand. If Robb had him alongside in the Whispering Wood, what might have been?_

Ser Garlan whistled low when he saw the switch, and Jon wondered for a moment about his skill, for he’d heard that two of Lord Tyrell’s three sons were stout fighters.

Just then, a yelp from Arya snatched his attention back to the combatants, and he was able to see Ser Loras drop his shield and his guard as he took his sword into both hands and drive forward, leaving defense behind as his sword became his only care, taking great sweeping cuts at Harrion, who gave ground without reserve, each step backwards or to the side being greeted with a chant from the Tyrell knights.

“Roses! Roses! Roses! Roses!”

They bellowed to mark each step, even as the riverlords cursed.

These were the men who were present when he slew Ser Marbrand, and doubtless there was minor coin on the line today.

Even little Arya was frowning to see it, her long face punched into a scowl worthy of a Sansa spurred tantrum. She watched the match while Jon watched her, the lines deepening in that face, until she screwed up her face and gave her own bellow.

“C’mon, fucking knock him back or something!” She yelled, only to flush when the assembled men turned and looked at her in reproach, which was heightened when Jon gently cuffed her on the side of the head.

But that was all it took.

Jon didn’t know if Lord Harrion was merely baiting Ser Loras into a trap or if he was genuinely on the edge of losing, but it seemed his renewed vigor was timed to coincide precisely with the moment his princess gave in to her frustration with the match, for he came alive.

Ser Loras was still taking large brutal cuts, deadly but for the blunt edges on the swords they used, but Harrion cleanly parried a swing, and then stepped into the younger man’s space, and with his thick, broad shoulder shoved him back roughly. He didn’t wait for the knight to find his balance, but surged into his breach, his sword flashing at his middle.

The knight caught it easily, but didn’t expect the rib piercing elbow that followed the blade.

As the air was forced from his innards, causing Loras to slightly hunch over, the taller man was already moving again, this time with his sword’s blunt edge hooked behind the knight’s knee. With a mighty heave, he pulled the blade straight up horizontally, crookedly lifting the smaller man off the ground with only the sword as a help. The young man crashed mightily onto the ground upon his side, grunting painfully from the hard landing before awkwardly rolling to his hands and knees, only to stop, a disbelieving gape on his face at the sword quivering inches away from his helmeted nose, for Harrion had gracefully taken a knee beside the young knight, sword extended and the until then forgotten dagger at the ready.

The rivermen went wild, shouting and slapping each other about the shoulders as if they’d fought themselves, doubtless already spending the coin won by the exercise.

Arya’s whoop was unbecoming of a princess, but even Ser Garlan smiled at it, before he slowly walked to where his brother was being pulled to his feet by Harrion.

“Well fought, to the both of you.” Ser Garlan announced for the benefit of the yard, clearly trying to show that there’d be no hard feelings from this upset. He turned to Harrion, who was running with sweat in his armor. “That trick there with the sword, fighting with your weaker hand to test the abilities of your opponent. Risky, but in the right circumstances, might open the path to a swift victory, though the longer the match goes, the less edge it gives you.” He clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder, only to have it rudely shaken off.

“I would’ve won, if the sun hadn’t been shining so brightly on the shiny surfaces in this blasted yard!” He griped peevishly.

It was poor form, and a clear jab at Lord Harrion, who having shaved to rid himself of the lice he’d picked up in his captivity, now boasted a gleaming flesh colored pate. It was also false, as they both had helmets on, so the reflective sheen of his crown would’ve been hidden.

Still, a few of the Tyrell men snickered until Ser Garlan glared in their direction, and then turning back to his brother, smiled indulgently at him.

“So dear brother, you’re telling me that it wasn’t in fact his sword, but the sun itself that struck you down today?” He asked with a grin threatening the corners of his mouth.

“He fought well, and ably, but yes the sun played the larger part in deciding our match.” Ser Loras insisted, after giving that begrudging praise.

Harrion clearly didn’t care, his mind focused on the water one of the squires was tripping over himself to bring to him.

Arya at that moment decided to remember her lessons with Maester Luwin about the Houses of the north.

“Well he’s a Karstark, and their words are the sun of winter. So it makes sense for him to win that way.” She crowed triumphantly, her gamine smile splitting her face.

Ser Loras just scowled at her, probably thinking that she had no place in the yard at all to begin with.

Ser Garlan said one word, and then it picked up around the yard, until all the Tully warriors and a few brave Tyrell knights were chanting it too, and so was the little princess and her bastard big brother.

“Sunstrike.”

“Sunstrike.”

“Sunstrike!”

“SUNSTRIKE!”

 

 

End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appreciative of any comments that are given.


	10. Tinder Stews

When Wolves So Will

Chapter 10

 

Davos

_Kings Landing_

 

_Never did I lament my king’s harsh reputation or his ability to cause those who fear him to flee, but in this, I come close to it._

For the third time that week, Ser Davos Seaworth found himself hurrying through the near empty halls of the red keep, back to his king’s side after bearing a message to the rookery that would’ve been better spirited by a young page or servant, of which the Targaryen built castle was woefully bereft of in these trying times.

The scroll the maester had shoved into his hands for the king to look upon was an oddly heavy thing, and it bore a grey wax seal, though it had been broken.

The city had verily emptied of nobles following the fleeing of the Lannisters, with most seeking their own lands after the decadent bounty of the lions had run out.

With these nobles went their sons, daughters, personal servants and general clutter that follow the rich.

And that included the young boys who serve the ambitions of their family in the royal courts. They who would be the pages, squires and castle officers.

But even if the expected hustle and bustle of the capital of the realm was present in his king’s court, Davos doubted he’d trust an important messages to just anyone.

He was not his brother Robert.

But without the natural structures of a kingly court, King Stannis was more than willing to use those he trusted to ferry information about.

_If I had the legs of Dale or the energy of Allard, these halls wouldn’t seem so long. But since I’m a man fleeing my youth, these walks seem ever longer._

Davos paused by an uncommonly opened window in the nearly empty hallway that led away from the rookery, the sharp shine of the mid-morning sun beautiful on the clear horizon of the ocean.

It was only marred by the thick pall of smoke drifting from the still burning portions of the city, drastic measures taken to stem the spread of greyscale.

_Most of the windows have been closed and shuttered by order of the king, but the need for fresh air in these hot halls make even the lowest of servants toe towards disobedience. It was probably a scullery maid who ran off at the sound of my approach. Everything sounds grander than it truly is here, so she likely thought I was a patrolling knight._

Davos thought about closing it himself, but instead found himself agreeing with the tiny treason and continued on, as if he’d never saw anything amiss.

Gaining the hall where the small council met by tradition, Davos just gave a small nod to one of the two black and gold liveried knights who guarded the entrance.

With a reciprocated acknowledgement, the man pushed open the door and leaned aside, allowing Davos to slip inside.

The cool chamber was darkly lit, only a few strategically placed candles lighting the long room, and the grim people of import occupying it.

Davos hurried past the bare columns of the room, glaringly absent of the sigilia that the powerful usually indulged in to reinforce their importance and right to rule.

Knowing the nature of the castle’s new ruler, they were like to stay that way as well Davos mused, even as his eyes fell upon the man himself.

His scowling king, Stannis Baratheon the first of his name sat in the chair at the top of the table, with his kinsman hand at his left and a sheepskin map laid out before him.

Ser Richard Horpe was present, cold and brutal, a perfect representation of their king’s feelings as the new Master of Laws.

Davos was fishsmacked to see the oldest of his sons present, Dale standing behind the chair that held the new Master of the city watch, Ser Imry Florent.

_The death of Janos Slynt and a good portion of the Cloaks made it possible for my son’s appointment. I won’t waste a moment for Slynt, but there were good men who fell to the mad fury of the clansmen and the calculated malice of Tywin Lannister._

All were murmuring quietly to one another, except the king who merely sat and waited. He gestured with a large hand to one of the few empty seats, the only greeting he would give when more important matters loomed.

His hand however, was more than happy to be the first to address the tardy onion knight.

Lord Alester Florent was smugly contemptuous as he smiled at Davos, the pleasant look a lie exposed by the cold disdain emanating from his eyes.

“Ah, our good Ser Onion. How good of you to grace us, who wait upon our king.” The smooth reach accent was congenial courtesy perfected, but the snide stink of the belly below smelled clear through. “As he waits upon you, ser.”

The warning wasn’t necessary, Davos already being dismayed at seeing his king had beaten him there from his personal chambers he’d set Davos out on his mission from.

His son Allard, bedecked in the fine plate armor and famed golden cloak of his station glared daggers at the hand, but held his composure even as he bristled, for he knew his king a little and felt he wouldn’t appreciate squabbling among these here.

King Stannis clearly agreed, for he barked one word and silence snatched the room once more.

“Enough.” He bit out tersely, his shadowed gaze focused across the table into one of the dark corners of the gloomily lit room. “The noble men who owe me their fealty and the swords who follow them are at this moment swinging across my seven realms, with selfish ambitions the driving force behind every thrust, and you men of standing snipe and hiss at each other like the useless pets my false nephew so loves to consume his time with. End it here.”

Satisfied that his piece would carry the meeting, the king turned to his Hand, pausing a moment before starting the council in truth.

“Lord Alester, what word do you have of the Citadel and their current standing in the process of replacing the former Grand Maester?” He asked briskly, contempt tendering his words. “Maester Pylos is working to the best of his ability to treat the infected of the capitol, he assures me but I sincerely doubt his best will amount to much, and besides I’d have him support the maester of StormsEnd, for that is the center of the sickness. How much longer can it take those old men to choose another old man to be old and look wise, while young men and women die in the meantime?” He huffed, disgust thickly flavoring his words.

Lord Alester Florent twisted his lips unhappily at the question, not quite a frown, but by no measure a smile covering his face.

“Your Grace, I must tell you that the Citadel decided to send their candidate by ship, rather than by land, erring on the side of caution in hopes of avoiding the spread of disease. Whomever they sent, he’s likely nearing the Arbor now, from whence he will charter a boat here.” He shared slowly, worry lines knitted across his brow.

“Of course he will.” Spat the king, before he turned to the vain knight commander of the City Watch. “What news have you of the continued treasons of the wolves of Winterfell?” He demanded coldly, his blue eyes narrowed in stormy vexation.

Ser Imry was a proudly vain peacock of a noble, the type to seek out succulent information just so a show could be made of the sharing of the morsels later, but even he had the wisdom to know that his king wasn’t the sort of man to tolerate such self-pleasing aggrandizement.

So he gave his tender cuts of knowledge with little fanfare, aside from what he seemed to believe to be a rakish leer that he wore in perpetuity.

“Your Grace, we know the wolves have closed the River road and established strong patrols to keep the infected out of their lands. Well beyond that, sometime in the last three weeks, there was apparently a small battle between the Starks and the Lannisters near the westerlands border. The Starks apparently won that fight, and nearly a thousand Lannister soldiers died in the doing. Ser Addam Marbrand was the commander of that force, and he apparently died with his men, slain by a tall northman bearing the sunburst. A paltry few Lannister deserters found their way back to the Crownlands, carrying the tale. Most importantly-”

“Karstark.” King Stannis interjected rather rudely.

Ser Imry was plainly befuddled, his trademark smirk dipping for an instant as those unfortunate ears rose even as his eyebrows did.

“Your grace, I’m afraid I don’t understand-.“ He began before he was again cut off in the middle of a sentence.

“The tall northman bearing a sunburst on his cloak was a Karstark, Ser Imry.” King Stannis wasn’t a patient man, but he took the time to educate one of his men right there, in that meeting. “Their words are the sun of winter, and it appears that the burning tree of the Marbrands was merely a candle in the face of the glare, and guttered out.”

The practiced sneer that covered Ser Imry’s florid face was altogether comical, but the words that fell from his thick lips verged on disrespect.

“Your Grace, I’m sorry but what does it matter which musty northman was the one to slay the Marbrand?” He perilously demanded of his king. “Be it one smelly brute in bearskins or another, it makes little difference Sire.”

Lord Alester audibly sighed at his relative’s misstep, only to reach for his cup of wine and take a slow sip as he glared daggers at Davos from across the rim, as if he’d been the one to put Ser Imry up to this.

Stannis Baratheon was content to simply stare at his relative by marriage for several long seconds, until the shovel spanned ears of Ser Imry flushed a hot red with his discomfort, under the king’s heavy gaze.

“It matters, Ser Imry because once again, Lord Stark weaves another patch on the grand tapestry of this war of five kings, as the fool singers have taken to calling this entire treasonous affair. I would know the emblems decorating each patch Ser.” He ground out coldly, one large hand fisted atop the table and the other flat beside it.

Lord Alester leapt in at this point, eager to perhaps both save his kin and downplay the magnitude of the Stark boy’s accomplishments.

“Your grace, Ser Addam Marbrand was a popular knight, well loved by the commons it seems, but most handsome knights who throw flowers and coins freely find themselves well regarded.” He reasoned calmly, his Reach accent smoothly reassuring. “Beyond that, he was a tourney knight who won no great victories and had no accompanying legend. Aside from this one command, the highest position he held in Lord Tywin’s armies was captain of the outriders. We need not fear this Karstark or the puppy who commands him, Your Grace.”

Ser Imry to his credit looked appreciatively at the Hand, nodding as if these were his thoughts all along.

But to Davos Seaworth, it was a small way of looking at things.

King Stannis agreed, by the direction of his next statement.

“It’s not just the one battle Lord Florent!” King Stannis snapped, both hands now fisted before him. The growing frustration evident in the tautness of the shoulders and jaw. “Before Ser Addam Marbrand, it was Ser Gregor Clegane, and prior to him, it was Ser Jaime Lannister. With each victory, his legend grows. As his legend deepens, so do the roots from the seeds of loyalty that he buried in the hearts of the people of the riverlands. He’s killing their monsters, their nightmares and each death means they’ll fight that much harder in defense of his rule. He’s become my brother, with all the necessary awe and myth. If you cannot see how this works against me as the only true ruler of these seven kingdoms, say so now and I’ll put that badge on the man who does.”

The promise was thickly weighed in the king’s voice, and for a moment, none spoke.

Lord Alester just grimaced as if he’d already been stripped of his all too important pin, and Dale just looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but there.

The commander of the grotesque Grey Ghasts spoke then, after observing the discussion with his expected grim cast.

“You said most importantly, Ser?” He coldly asked Ser Imry, who’d been greedily eyeing the badge on Lord Alester’s breast.

He started then, frowning at the battered knight for interrupting his pondering before his eyes flicked back to their king, who was waiting with an air of impatience.

“Ah, yes there was more.” He coughed weakly, his face flaming and orange in the gloomy chamber. “Sire, the Stark girl was present in the Lannister’s camp. The oldest one, I’ve been told. Lord Tywin planned to marry the girl himself, so he had her and her father’s valyrian steel sword bundled together and meant for the west. It was no secret, his intentions. Now both are in the hands of Robb Stark, and we’ve lost the chance to use them against him”

_And I thought it was called the luck of the Lannisters._

King Stannis just glared at the man, his square jaw slowly working as he visibly fought the urge to give in to his infamous habit of grinding his teeth together, the harsh exhalation he forced through his flared nostrils the only sound in the chamber.

“The sword matters little, as I doubt a son of Eddard Stark would prize valyrian steel above the life of his blood.” He stated bitterly. “But the girl could’ve meant everything in our efforts of reining in these wayward wolves. Have we had any correspondence from the Starks, officially yet?”

At that question, the wax bonded scroll became a brand in his pocket and he fished it out quickly, handing it to Lord Alester who accepted it with a look of polite but apparent revulsion at his maimed hand.

“Forgiveness Sire, the good maester instructed me to give it to you at once, but my mind-.”He stammered, the cold gazes landing on him he almost felt physically, but for his loyal son. “There is no excuse, Your Grace. I’m sorry.”

His king’s hot blue eyes bored into him, storm cast daggers of expectation.

:”See that it doesn’t repeat itself, Onion Knight.” Was all he gave him before he looked at his Hand. “Lord Florent!” He barked, so loudly that the handsome lord jerked in his chair, before his put the parchment down with a shaking hand and opened his mouth.

“Sire, this scroll comes from Winterfell and Lord Stark himself. Victarion Greyjoy is dead and his host that sought to strangle the Neck is destroyed, and not stopping there, he’s executed Roose Bolton and his bastard son for treasons against the north. He wishes to have a parlay with you, Sire upon his return to the south.”

Ser Imry scoffed into the silence that followed his relatives reading.

“The pup may know his way around a battle, but he’s still a foolish boy at heart. He overshares, when he should hold his tongue.” The derision was thick on his tongue, but the irony was lost on the man, even as the others in the room shifted uncomfortably.

“No, Ser Imry, he knows exactly what he’s doing with this news.” The chilly correction from Ser Horpe was as ever, to the point and bluntly given. “He tells us information that he knows would find us inevitably, but he controls the current at the moment.”

Ser Imry must have been a poor student in his youth, for he glared malevolently at the grim knight, his mouth moving to an ugly sneer before the large hand of the king clapped down upon the table, shutting Ser Imry’s lips and his intentions before they were inflicted upon the room.

“Ser Horpe is right, but that’s not as important as the gravity of this news.” He cut in, iron lacing his voice. “If Victarion Greyjoy was successful in taking the Neck from the Starks, they’d be trapped in the south, with no way home barring the unlikely change of course for their relative, Lady Arryn of the Vale. If she refused to aid them as she has to this point, we could’ve used my fleet as a means of leveraging the Stark usurper to his knees, in exchange for a ship ride home to White Harbor for he and his men. If Greyjoy was able.” He stressed, with bitterness dripping from every word.

“Which he wasn’t, and now the Stark boy is back in his lands, and has destroyed a legendary house of ancient standing, the only one in the region that had a history of stubborn rebellions, that we mayhap could’ve used as an in to the north. That is lost to us now, and his lords now see the steel beneath the furs. Lord Alester, tell us of-.” The king stopped abruptly, his brows drawn together in the picture of perplexed ire as he looked at Ser Imry in confused wrath.

“Ser Imry, what part of what I just said do you find so particularly amusing, that you’d inflict your smile on the room?” the stormking demanded, wrathful incredulity laden over his query.

_This is not the man to laugh at ser, especially when discussing matters of great importance._

Ser Imry fielded his king’s curiosity with a rather daring nonchalance.

“Forgive me Sire, I was merely happily imagining how quickly the boy in the north would lose his backbone and find his knees if we had his sister’s at hand, and threatened to wed them to lowly knights and men at arms of our households, if he insisted on calling himself a king. A king with a lowly hedge knight or man at arms as a good-brother?” He smirked at the fool thoughts he unwisely indulged himself in.

“Nephew, you forget yourself!” Lord Alester hissed at his kinsmen, blatantly cutting his eyes towards the dangerously silent king brooding at the head of the table. “Your Grace, Ser Imry is clearly temporarily ad-.”

The swift hand wave from the still silent king ended his flimsy excuses, and Davos was of the mind that this boded nothing good for the recently promoted Florent.

_King Stannis is as likely to hang the man, as banish him back to his Reach homeland._

“This is an opportunity for this council to learn of how I intend to rule.” King Stannis Baratheon said this quietly, even as his dark blue eyes burned with a darker heat. “And even more importantly, how I expect those who serve at my choosing will be looked upon for advisement and counsel. So this discourse will continue, between Ser Imry and I, and all other tongues shall be stilled until I give the word for otherwise.”

The serious threat of Stannis was beginning to dawn on Ser Imry, who was quickly losing his color, as well as his devil may care posturing.

“Your Grace, I wasn’t trying to overstep, truly I wasn’t. I just find myself so angry about the state of the realm that I occasionally think on ways to put things as they should be. That’s all it is Sire.” He reasoned weakly, his bravado from moments past a wisp of poor pitch that was never there.

“No Ser, let us walk this path you dreamt up from the hollow betwixt your ears.” King Stannis said with a bite to his tone that bordered on the vicious. “We threaten Lord Stark with inflicting exceedingly poor marriages on his sisters, if we were so fortunate as to have them at hand. Tell me Ser, what happens when the boy decides he likes the crown more than his likes his sister’s back in his halls? Do we make fools of ourselves, and not go through with what we threatened, thus proving that we aren’t men of our words, and are making mummers out of kingship? Or do we go through with our threats, wasting good political seed on the lowest of soils?”

Ser Imry was rapidly turning a landleggers green as if he was out at sea during a bitter storm, but he somehow managed to sweat at the same time, and it all loomed bad to Davos.

_The council table would likely need a good scrubbing and the windows opened if his condition continued to deteriorate under our king’s scrutiny. The smell of smoky air would be preferable to the stench of a man’s belly lining._

“With your direction, I’d imagine you would have me wed the oldest Stark girl to Tywin Lannister’s pet Sandor Clegane if we were favored enough to have him at hand as well, is that it? And then we could go even a step further and marry the younger girl to my brother’s blacksmithing bastard? In what realm of logic does either action make sense? Is that the breadth of your counsel Ser? Purely rank folly and idiocy, is all you’ve considered?!” He fairly growled, as he leaned forward in his chair, cold fury evident in the very snap of his words and the tension in his large frame.

“Leave my sight Ser, and my hall. Your position has been erroneously given, and so I rescind it. Go back to the Reach, for men of your ilk aren’t needed here!” He ordered brutally, his eyes never leaving the over proud fool.

Ser Imry bolted from his chair, the pallor of his skin an even deeper green, and he made for the far doors with an unabashed sprint, thankfully clearing it and making the hall before they heard the gross splatter of his prior meals on the castle floor.

Two men’s curses rang out in a response of disgust and revulsion, before they quickly remembered whose doorway they were standing watch over.  

A single guard liveried in the black and gold emblems of the Baratheon’s peered into the room, and reading the mood from the doorway, hastily closed the heavy oak door.

Davos found himself still concentrating on that far off door Ser Imry just escaped through, trying his hand at willing his king to calm and steadiness while looking away from him.

From the corner of his eye, he saw that his actions were mirrored by the two other councilors, all three determinedly looking into the gloom.

None moved or even breathed, so heavy was the fear of a misstep catching the king’s attentions, and more fearfully, his wrath.

All was silent in the hot chamber apart from the grinding teeth of their sovereign.

At last, someone roused themself to action, but it was the last person Davos expected to brave the uncertainty that hung over the room.

With a starkly loud sounding rustling, the only man present wearing plate and mail smartly stepped away from the rear of the now empty chair his former commander vacated, and took three swift steps towards his king.

Dale bowed low to the king and made to follow his former commander, only to be stopped by King Stannis.

“I have not given you permission to exit my presence, Dale Seaworth.”

It was coldly said, but it was true.

“Sit, young Seaworth; in the chair that flowery fool abandoned in his finest act. You’ll doubtless serve me better, and not offer up such stupidity as well.”

Stunned and surely afraid, his first son sat, holding himself as stiff as a freshly carved skiff on warm seas. “As you say, Your Grace.”  


It was hard for Davos to sit there as proud a man as any who found himself to be fortunate enough to be a father, and not give into the desire to congratulate the first child of his body.

But he knew his king wasn’t a man to make allowances for sentimentality, even on his best days.

So it fell to Davos to merely nod his acknowledgement at his son, rather than the hearty embrace his fingers itched for.

_Oh Marya, could you have had any inkling of how high our children would rise in the world, when you sweetly sang to them as suckling babes? We were born and raised in FleaBottom, and now our son will be in charge of the men who patrol the entire city of Kings Landing._

All weren’t pleased at the regard the king held for the petty Seaworth though.

Across from him, Lord Alester looked with malice at his nephew’s replacement, all masked behind that veneer of Reachman courtesy.

“Ser Horpe, you will take the most competent of my men at arms, and assign him as a second to Master Seaworth. He will follow Master Dale, as Master Dale will glean my expectations of the Goldcloaks from you.” King Stannis ordered grimly, his tone and countenance brooking no disobedience. “The days of that toad Janos Slynt are over, and so are the corruptions he allowed and certainly encouraged himself.”

It made sense.

Ser Richard Horpe was a coldly competent man, with the gentle touch of an iron gauntlet, and as the Master of Laws, it would fall to the Gold Cloaks to uphold the laws he would set forth with the blessings of the king. It would only make the process easier if they worked hand in hand.

“Sire, if I may….” Lord Alester bravely (or foolishly) toed the line King Stannis had just drawn in the sand, with only a precursory licking of his lips.

“You may not Lord Alester.” King Stannis cut him off, ungentle warnings dripping off his lips. “I know the way of you, even if you don’t know of me. The boy is too young, you’ll say. Good is my response, for he’s not old enough to be unteachable and unbending. Robb Stark is younger, and he’s been named king by his people. To the next, he’s lowly born and barely a noble. Even the better, for he’s giving the men the hope that good service is rewarded, while his ambitions are checked by his knowledge of where his family springs from. The last I expect, is nothing he’s done has prepared him for this position. To that, I say wrong my Lord Hand. He and his brothers had the charge of the princess while we sailed for the city. He tasted her food himself, and slept outside her door faithfully. Even the condition that afflicts her now is a secret he’s told no one. He can be trusted Lord Florent, and that’s more important than breeding and experience for this city, right now.” He stated flatly, his gaze heavy on the face of the Hand.

Cowed and unhappy, Lord Alester sought to take some measure of control over the meeting, deftly changing the subject back to matters of war.

“Just so, Sire.” He gave with a grimace. “My ears in the Reach tell me that the host of Lord Mace Tyrell is still mustered, though it remains several leagues north of Bitterbridge. I fear this is a bad portent, my King.”

With a sigh, King Stannis pursed his lips as he looked upon the map stretched out over the table.

“Why, Lord Alester? You fear they look to ally with the Lannisters?” He scoffed roughly, skepticism painting his words.” I know Lord Oaf, and he wouldn’t seek to twist his vines around a sinking ship. When Lord Oaf saw the direwolf banners of Lord Stark seventeen years ago outside of Storms End, he knew that the days of the dragon were done. He kneeled on the muddy ground outside my ancestral castle, at the dusty feet of Eddard Stark. I should know, I was there on the ramparts watching he and his men muddy themselves without reserve, you included Lord Florent. I say now, that the days of the lion are done, and the noble oaf knows it.”

_Thank the Seven that it’s so, my king. Never has a crueler family sat on the throne of the seven kingdoms, and we are blessed that it was so brief a reign._

“No Your Grace, I fear you’re correct.” Lord Florent admitted quietly. He blanched a bit before continuing with greater urgency. “We know that the Tyrell’s have closed the Roseroad and increased patrols, just as Ser Imry shared of the Starks doing the same. Well, my ears again, have told me that there have been men with the accents of the Reach, mixed in the patrols of the riverlands on the southern edges. As I said Sire, it doesn’t bode well.”

A curt, shrill whistle sounded from the normally composed Ser Richard, which gained him a glare from the king before his eyes again caught those of his good-uncle by marriage.

“You think the flowers are in alliance with the wolves? What can they hope to gain from a House that only cares about the north?” He demanded harshly, frank condemnation shining in his blue eyes.

“I don’t know, Your Grace. At any other time, my formal overlord can be predicted as a fisherman tells the tide. This plague, it changes everything. What I do know is this, if Robb Stark can take hold of the armies of the Reach, this war hasn’t even begun yet. We’ve seen what the boy can do with his little. I’d hate to see what he’s capable of with very much.” He confessed plainly, an aging stress pressed into the deepening lines of his handsome face.

“I’d not fear such an eventuality so soon, Lord Florent.” King Stannis uncharacteristically reassured his Hand. “Men such as Lord Tarly and Lord Redwynne aren’t the type to peaceably take orders and direction from a boy they consider to be barely out of his swaddling clothes. I think if the Stark’s hope to hold sway over the Tyrells, it won’t be an easy alliance.” He mused grimly, a dark amusement in his voice.

“Your Grace, if I may?” Ser Richard rasped from the next chair over.

At the wave of his king’s hand, he continued, his black eyes shining with something like reproach.

“Sire, even if the esteemed Reach lords chafe at taking orders from what they see as a mere pup, if they’re resolved to not fight for us, those are arms that we can’t point at him. We’ve near twenty thousand men here in this city, ready and willing to march to war, and nearly three thousand Greys outside it, able to bear arms and march as well. And yet we can’t march, for we all of us know that the moment the greater host leaves, that shadow whispering High Septon will rouse his faithful, and take the gates and bar us out. They’re hiding in plain sight, Sire, waiting for us to make a mistake.” He ended gloomily, glaring at the oak table in front of him.

“What would you have me do then Ser?” The King rounded on his loyal knight with a blistering ire on him, the chair creaking in protest from the violence of the movement. “Take sword and axe to the people in the hopes of drawing out this phantom septon and his followers? Is this what you would counsel me Ser?” He barked his questions, the legendary fury of his House threatening to fall upon Ser Richard Horpe as it fell on Ser Imry.

Ser Richard was a glacier in the face of his king’s fury, steady and calm even as the seas roiled around him.

“No Sire, I would not have you turn your weapons against your people. But there is another arrow in your quiver that might do what far flung decrees and mustering’s have failed to do.” He suggested coolly.

_No ser, this won’t be what he wants to hear. This won’t cause the king to look on you with favoring eyes. But I truly doubt that was ever a thing you concerned yourself with, for you are no Imry Florent._

_“_ No, we won’t have this conversation again Ser. She is my heir, not a fisherman’s basket to be bartered and haggled over like fresh cod at the market.” King Stannis grumbled to the room, his block of a jaw stubbornly set above his crossed arms.

 _“_ What I advise Sire, isn’t what Ser Imry suggested in last week’s council meeting.” Ser Horpe said stonily to his king, two men implacable in their drive and manner. “The knight suggested we seek alliance with the Vale, betrothing Lord Robert Arryn to the Princess in exchange for their vows of fealty and the swords they bring. That was folly, as Lady Arryn wouldn’t allow her son to leave her grasp. What my thoughts are is that we no longer hide the truth from the people of this city, and beyond that, the realm at large. Declare to the realm that the Princess Shireen has been cured of her greyscale, and now has been baptized by the fire into the coloring of her great grandmother, the Targaryen princess Rhaella. You’ve united the claims Your Grace, and the steadfastly dragon loyal will now have to admit the rightness of your rule.”

There it was, the secret that had been boiling under the lid of the capitol for three weeks. Even now, his next two oldest sons were the sole guards and companions of the Princess Shireen, as no others were trusted to keep such a momentous tale silent.

Princess Shireen, the shy, quiet daughter of the sole remaining son of Steffon and Cassanna Baratheon, had been burned back to life, forever changed. She was still the sweet, bookish girl she was before her senseless murder at the hands of the fisherman’s wife, but her look which was once grotesque, was now other worldly in fairness.

She had the creamy, porcelain coloring of her grandmother, but where her hair was a thick, inky black tide before, it was now an ash blond cap ringing her head, growing longer and finer every day.

Her eyes, once the stormy blue shade of her father and his father before him, were now the eerie violet of the legendary Mad King Aerys Targaryen.

The stag princess was reborn as a dragon princess.

Davos had been behind the King and his Hand as they waited to welcome the Queen and the Princess to the newly gained capitol.

Davos was the first to notice that something was different about the manner of Queen Selyse and her treatment of her daughter.

There were many affectionate touches, pats, strokes and whispers, where before there was only ever strict directions and a detached tolerance.

_I merely thought that her brief loss of her child had roused the softening of her heart, and maybe an appreciation for the value of love in a family. If only our Queen had that sort of sentiment within her bosom. I was so very wrong._

Queen Selyse didn’t have it in her to treat her deformed daughter kindly, but her perfected daughter, her she could love without reserve.

And she did just that, one that day weeks prior in the mostly empty throne room, aside from the council members and his three oldest sons, who Queen Selyse shooed to the back of the room.

“Look upon our daughter, husband!” She crowed triumphantly, her clawlike hand snatching back the heavy hood that hid the slight form of the princess from curious eyes. “Look upon our jewel!”

Davos gasped that day, and the other council members hardly handled themselves any better.

Ser Richard whistled as he would weeks later in the council chamber, while Ser Imry crudely cursed, followed by a swift apology to the general room.

Lord Alester just gaped like a fish, but the King was a rock on his throne.

The only indication of his distress was the loud crack that was heard clearly, as he cracked a tooth in his clenching.

That was then, and they had been sworn to the severest secrecy since.

What Ser Richard was pushing for, would announce to the realm at large that a dragon had been born to House Baratheon.

This great change was now surely why the Lady Melisandre had given herself to hungrily eyeing the Great Sept of Baelor, as always surrounded by the staunchest of her disciples, those warriors who had taken to calling themselves the Fire Fed.

Her influence had grown greatly since the resurrection of the princess, and while the common men might not know that their princess now looked a dragon, they knew she was dead before, and lived again.

And they gave all credit to the Red Woman, and some pledged to serve her and her greedy God.

But with the growing of the Fire Fed, came the bitter pushback from the followers of the Seven.

The last High Septon had been killed in what must have been fierce riots, but the man who replaced him was a secret to those of the Red Keep, eschewing the ornamental trappings of his predecessors, and only focusing his ministry on the poor, neglected, and the defense of his Gods.

His faithful had taken arms from the barracks of the city, in the hours after the bitter bite of the lions as they fled the city. There weren’t enough Cloaks to stop them, and the recovery of the stolen arms was the main priority of the newly reformed Gold Cloaks, but the people themselves hid the weapons and the faithful, and it was clear that while King Stannis held the city in nominal terms, it was a pot of wildfire he held, and a loose ember danced above the rim.

It was only a matter of time before the fire caught.


	11. Dream Weavers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit happens

 

 

When Wolves So Will

Chapter 11

 

Robb

 

It was cold here.

The sea spurred freeze held a bitter cast to it, and the bite that followed it was vicious.

He’d never been this far west of Winterfell in all his seventeen years, and to see it as the absolute ruler of all the north had never made the burden feel so real.

His lord father had taken him to Deepwood Motte, the ancient wooden seat of the Glovers a few times in the name of acquainting his heir with all the regions of his future rule, but he’d never brought him here.

The Stony Shore was a vast, hostile gaze of bleak coastline that was bordering beautiful in its austere coldness, nearly absent of humanity but for the occasional cabins and cottages of its withered population of fishermen and crofters. 

There were little to no people here, no lords in dispute to settle. The only lord here was the lord of sand and hard grey soil, and his wealth was unparalleled by the other northern lords. 

 But apparently the west wasn’t always so poor, even though Robb had thought it so as a young boy.

_Maester Luwin swiftly corrected the lapse in my knowledge of northern history back in Winterfell in a most enlightening conversation._

The maester had almost wept to see him ride through the gates of Winterfell, lathered and sweaty, but the unusually emotive response from the loyal man was nothing in comparison to the sheer relief and painful joy that his younger brothers exuded with.

Rickon nearly caused a riot when he saw his big brother, tearing away from the receiving line without any hesitation, Shaggydog fierce in his wake and snapping at any hands that made to grab the prince back. Bran had been in his wheeled chair beneath one of the covered walkways as the wheels would just get stuck in the muddy yard, and had just smiled with sad eyes, and Robb remembered the promise he’d made to his young brother the chilly night he’d first took his army south.

_No father, and no girls as well. I’ve even left mother in the south, the only parent we’ve left to us. It’s a small blessing that I’ve even been given a smile, given how I promised so much but delivered on none of it, in truth._

Grey Wind and Shaggydog met first, the huge black wolf’s snarls almost vicious, but Grey Wind was much bigger still, and he plowed his pack mate to the ground, ignoring his fangs and just content to use his significant weight advantage to submit the toothy direwolf. The contrite yelps and barks were fast coming, and with only a warning nip to punctuate the reconciliation, the enormous grey wolf released him. Shaggy rose swiftly and merely butted his head against his brother before stalking back towards Rickon who was already upon his brother.

Robb and Rickon were nowhere near as prickly with one another, and their reunion was easy and warm. 

Robb just pulled his taller youngest brother into himself, roughly rubbing the tangled red brown thatch of hair that matched his own, giving him a few moments to shed his tears against his belly, a bitter smile pulling at his own dry lips as he directed it at Bran, taller on his little pony than he’d been before, his legs longer in the queer straps that held him there, but still so thin and limp.

Ser Rodrik barely held himself back, as he took his knee before Robb, gruff emotion apparent in his voice as he gave the protocols as the people of Winterfell followed his example.

“Your Grace, as the princes have forgotten-.” He began, before being cut off by Bran.

“We’ve not forgotten Ser Rodrik.” Bran admonished quietly with a chilly tartness to his voice, but turning to Robb again, he did as their father had always taught them.

“Your Grace, Winterfell is yours once again.” His voice rang clear in the crowded courtyard, and the cheers of Robb’s army and the still kneeling people of Winterfell were loud, but the howls of Grey Wind and Shaggydog were even beyond that.

“Arise, all of you!” Robb boomed happily, momentarily wincing as he saw even his ancient nurse, Old Nan shakily rise to her feet with the aid of her umpteenth grandson. So many familiar faces from his childhood were present, but that just made the absences even more jarring.

Vayon Poole was a hole in the whole, as was his silly daughter who was an extra limb on his own missing sister, Sansa.

The little shadow that had followed Sansa and Jeyne everywhere was still here though, little Beth Cassel who held Old Nan’s hand.

The stalwart guardsmen that had been familiar faces from his childhood were mostly gone, with a small few remaining.

Iverd was easiest to recognize, for he easily towered over nearly everyone in the yard except Hodor and the Smalljon.

It seemed so natural to look past the huge man at arms to the covered bridge that his lord father had somehow managed to always be waiting upon with a sad smile whenever he and Jon had blown in from the infrequent morning rides they took when they’d finally grown old enough to go riding unencumbered with chaperones.

To see it so painfully empty, and know that it would forever in a sense be thus, hit him so hard that for a moment his heart physically hurt and his vision swam with bitter tears.

_I don’t care if I must raise another twenty or thirty thousand men, I will see that evil shit at my feet, and I will flay him from his head to his toes. And then I’ll feed his skin to the wolves. On that day, I will gladly take on the manner of Ramsay Snow, if I can take joy in the pleasure of Joffrey Baratheon’s blood under my nails._

His father would say that such actions are beneath him and the House he represents, but he would gladly defy his father in this.

He jerked his mind to the needs of his army, turning to the lord who had ridden at his back that day.

“See to the wounded Lord Blackwood, as I see to my brothers.” He ordered briskly to the tall thin warrior who darkly shadowed him.

Even as the tall man obeyed and strode off, Robb’s thoughts turned again to Joffrey Baratheon, and all the ills he’d desire to visit upon the evil kingshit.

It was only the sting of Rickon’s small fist connecting with his belly that tore him away from his dark thoughts, reminding him that they were still in a crowded, expectant courtyard and the people were waiting to be dismissed to go about their day.

“What took you so long?!” His brother’s bright, grey blue eyes blazed accusatory in a face that had something of their father’s Stark length in it, as he glared up at his king and brother.  “And where’s Mother and Father with the girls, you promised to bring them back!” He demanded petulantly, a dark look in his eyes.

An audible gasp rippled through the watching castle folk, and Shaggydog snarled meanly.

“Rickon, you know better!” Bran yelled from his chair, a frustration clear in his voice that told Robb that his middle brother had already been over this with the smallest Stark.

But Rickon ignored his crippled brother and locked his eyes with Robb in accusation.

_Shit._

“A loyal prince of Winterfell doesn’t make demands of his king, Rickon; even when he’s their brother.” Robb admonished harshly, even as he pulled playfully on the overlong russet hair of his youngest brother. “We are Starks of Winterfell brother, and we do not make scenes. That is not what our lord father would permit, so neither shall I.”

But it appeared that in his absence, his fiery younger brother had become even more fierce, for his chin set stubbornly, and a scowl worthy of their lady mother adorned his brow.

“Not another word until I speak to you in private, Rickon Stark.” He growled thinly. “Comport yourself as the prince I know you to be.” He commanded, the ice in his voice chilling the rapt audience of the courtyard.

He broke the battle of wills he and Rickon were locked in between their eyes, raising his head and looking about the crowded yard, seeing consternation and disapproval in many eyes at his hard manner towards a brother he hadn’t seen in nearly a year and a half.

The wild prince stormed off then, stomping his exit, with a vicious looking Shaggydog close upon his heels.

The people moved aside to watch him go, pity and resentment for his rough treatment all living in their eyes.

Eyes that were soon fastened back upon Robb, anger on his brother’s behalf in many a tightly set mouth.

_And yet I will not indulge his behavior for he is a Stark and more is required of him. Let them think me cold, if it means that they no longer see the boy I once was._

Robb was then for a moment lost, unsure of whether to dismiss the castle folk or just sweep inside himself.

But Ser Rodrik came to the rescue, faithful retainer that he was.

He turned to a smooth cheeked youth, dressed in a clean leather jack and wool breeches.

“Barvet, make sure Cook knows to prepare a proper feast for the king and his men tonight!”

The young man gave a curt nod and strode for the great hall, his manner telling all that he took this order he was tasked with extremely seriously.

“Is this not a day of work people, be about your business!” Ser Rodrik roared at the crowd, scaring them into action. “Our king has returned yes, so there will be a feast tonight, so hold your greetings until then! Off with you all now!” He boomed briskly, not waiting to see if his bellows were heeded.

Apparently he was correct in his confidence, for the people scattered like mice caught under the glare of a candle, in every direction, with Old Nan being the slowest, her gait stiff and her hand clutching Beth’s small shoulder for support as she led her into the great hall.

Ser Rodrik watched her go with a fond look, before turning back to Robb, who was still inwardly cursing even as he made to find his younger brother’s face.

He turned to look at Bran, but his brother had already turned himself and was slowly rolling himself in the direction of the godswood.

Ser Rodrik nodded to Robb, pulling at the thick white sideburns that framed his florid face as he did whenever he was caught in a moment of emotional weight.

“Tis’ good to have you returned to us safely, Your Grace. I would never presume to tell you what to do, but concerning the youngest, he forgets sometimes, or at least he chooses to the Maester tells me. Seeing your mother home will likely set him to rights, Sire.” He reassured bluntly with a curt bow, and Robb was suddenly struck by how familiar this all must seem to the old knight.

_He saw my father return to the north as the lord of Winterfell when the south killed my grandfather, aunt and uncle. And now he’s seen it happen again, only to me and my siblings this time. Through these repeated tragedies, he’s served us. And I will see this man rewarded for the dedication he’s shown the Starks, him and his family both. I’ve not forgotten Jory, as my father didn’t forget Martyn._

The Master at Arms of Winterfell had turned away and was making for the training yard when Robb grabbed him and held him, with a gentle but firm grip on the knight’s thick shoulder.

He almost wished his old instructor ignored his hand, but Ser Rodrik was too long and too proud a Stark man to ever be so disrespectful.

The thick white brows of the old warrior rose in askance, but Robb first gestured him to continue walking with him towards the tiltyard with the nudge of his chin.

“Your Grace….” The patient voice of Maester Luwin called to their backs and Ser Rodrik started but Robb just raised his hand and they continued to move.

They walked together for a few moments of silence, Robb taking a small pleasure in the comforting smells of Winterfell, of home.

But he still had to ask.

“What would you say of the princes, Ser?” He asked solemnly, meeting the sad gaze of the man.  “There’s nothing concerning them that I would need to know?”

Ser Rodrik let out a gust of a sigh; his age thickened middle pushing out with the effort of it, as he reached one meaty hand back to rub at his nape. Reluctance was radiating from every line of his weathered frame, but he soon spoke.

“How we find Prince Bran is dependent on the old gods alone, Your Grace.” He admitted slowly, as if the words were being pulled from his lips with sand roughened twine. “On his good days, he’s like his former self, back when there were better days in this castle. He’ll laugh and ask questions and even play with Prince Rickon and the wolves, when he’s not hearing grievances. Though on his bad days Sire, he’s a colder sort of Prince, distant and chilly. Ever watching Your Grace, and with a dark look to him. You’ve likely not noticed it yet, but we’ve put all the blonde men at arms to patrolling the lands beyond and guarding the Wintertown. He’ll not have them within the walls of Winterfell itself though.  He doesn’t trust people with yellow hair, Your Grace.”

The old knight appeared ashamed of his confession, as if he were the cause of the changes in his younger brother, rather than the truly guilty.

“And what of Prince Rickon Ser?” Robb prodded next. “How is he found most days?”

“The wee prince is hotly angry Sire.” The grizzled knight offered sadly. “He’s mad at the death of your father partly, but he’s mostly angry that everyone he knew as his family has been gone for so long, except Prince Bran of course. He’s prone to running off with that wolf of his, and they feed into each other Your Grace.  The wolf gets the bitterness, and the boy gets the bite. I fear I must say it sire, the sooner your remaining family is reunited in Winterfell, the sooner the boy can begin to be drawn back from the darkness of wrath.”

“You’ve done well ser, to help my brothers and hold Winterfell in this difficult time.” Robb shared with him, giving his shoulder a firm squeeze so as to emphasize the importance of just what the old warrior had done. “There will be a reward for all your family has done for mine, loyally serving all these years. One that all Cassels from this point forward can look back on.”

To his credit, the man fought it.

“Sire, we Cassel’s have always served the Starks proudly, and with little need for flowery recognition.” He protested gruffly, a self-conscious flush coloring his face. “I only did as my duty demanded, and it was an honor to do so. We neither seek, nor desire anything else. As it was in the days of your grandfather, Your Grace.”

_And yet, of everything my father told us of my grandfather, he was a man to reward those who earned it, and I will do no less._

“So you say, ser, but as I am king here, so will I do as I see fit. And I expect you to honor my wishes in this, by dropping your reservations, and trusting my wisdom.” He stated bluntly, no desire for an argument making him frank. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I would see Maester Luwin, as he’s been waiting most patiently for us to finish.”

With an embarrassed nod, Ser Rodrik rejoined his trek towards the training yard, looking back fretfully at Robb for a moment before he turned and began barking instructions at the poor souls who found themselves under his direction.

“Are you preparing to march to battle with the king or do you seek to dance with a noble’s silly daughter lad?!” He demanded with a shout at some unfortunate unseen green boy. “If its battle you ready for then stop your girlish dancing and swing that wooden sword I’m wasting on you!”

All Robb could do for a second was smile, a childhood of similar barks and bellows dancing behind his eyes.

_As it was with us, so shall it be with them._

“Your Grace, after all that has so tragically occurred, I must say it does my heart glad to see you safely returned to Winterfell.” Robb turned and looked down at the elderly man who was at his shoulder, his childhood teacher Maester Luwin, an etched sorrow living in the deepened lines of his face.

The grey haired man chuckled with no real humor as he touched a thin hand to his face as if to remind himself.

“Oh yes, there’s certainly more here than when you last saw me. Worrying over your scattered family has seen to their growth. I dare say I hope to manage a complete smile when your lady mother returns with the princesses though, as I learned at the citadel that it lessens the effect.”

Robb just pulled the maester into himself for a brief hug, shocking himself first as he remembered how he had been eye level with the man when he first marched to war, but now noticing that he towered over the him, and rattling Maester Luwin who was ever the picture of standoffish composure.

The small man patted his back quickly and then they stepped away from one another as if embarrassed by the filial familiarity between a servant and his king.

“Maester, I must first set the north to rights, and only then it will be safe enough for my mother and the girls to return home. To that end-“

Luwin interrupted him with a polite cough that turned into a suggestion.

“Forgive me Sire, but wouldn’t this conversation be better had in a more private place, such as your solar, Your Grace? There is much to discuss I fear.”

_My solar. He says it so matter of fact, and that’s not wrong but it’s so wrong. That will always be my father’s solar I imagine, with his desk and his chair and his things and his place. This all should’ve still been my father’s, with me coming into it far from now. And yet, I have ridden through the gates of Winterfell, and now they see the Lord of Winterfell. What was his, has through an evil turn has become mine. I tire of tragedy birthing change in House Stark._

“Of course you’re right Maester Luwin, lead the way.” Was all he said instead.

 

                                                                                *********

 

Their walk through the castle seemed to take forever, for there was always a servant, guard or maid who felt the need to bow low when he and the maester passed by, and as so many were faces he knew from his youth, he felt compelled to give utterance to some familiarity.

When they finally did reach the door, out of habit Robb raised his hand to knock on the banded ironwood, before he remembered that his Eddard Stark was gone and this was his domain now.

He thoughtlessly reached for the handle before a quiet “Your Grace” was heard to his side and a small key was produced from one of the many invisible pockets those of the grey order seem to cover themselves in.

He looked down at the key the maester had slid in his hand for a moment, taking in the time smoothed edges on the teeth and the slight bend in the metal, likely from someone wrenching the door open in the haste one time too many.

He slid it into the small keyhole, and turned it, and the small click of the release of the lock would’ve been lost on a normal day, but this was the first day of the rest of his life and the sound of the lock mechanism giving way reminded him of the boom of the collapsing siege towers outside Riverrun.

The door gave and drifted open by a hair, and Robb was suddenly terrified of what awaited him on the other side.

He bit his lip savagely and glared at the wood, tasting the queer metallic sweetness of freshly drawn blood as he willed himself to wake from this nightmare and find his father seated in the leather chair on the other side of the desk, his mother beside him with that familiar pucker between her brows that only Arya seemed to inherit of all the five children she birthed. His vision swam for a second, and he wanted his father back so badly that he whimpered but turned it into a cough instead.

He felt the hot leak of tears betray his eyes and slide down his cheeks, but he powered through and grabbing the door handle, he swung it open and stepped a foot inside the room, seeing everything just as his father had left it, aside from the lack of the enormous ancestral sword of his house leaning against the wall behind the lord’s chair.

Robb slowly walked deeper into the room, being mindful of not disrupting anything, stopping only once to ask the maester to light the candles of the room before he continued his journey to the chair behind the desk.

It was cool in the large chamber, and his stomach brutally knotted to look upon the chair alongside the desk and see the stark white fox fur drape that his father had always kept in here out of consideration for his mother’s abhorrence of the cooler temperatures of the room.

He sat down slowly, taking the time that Luwin considerately kept his back turned as he lit the wax candles to wipe his face of the tears he’d so childishly shed.

The chair was exceedingly firm, but not comfortable in the slightest. He knew now that it was a help to one’s posture, but he expected there was a deeper pathos to the uncomfortable seat.

For the moment, Robb busied himself with reverently going through the desk that dominated the room.

The footprint of his father was in there, but also of everything his father stood for. The maps of both the north and the greater realm was there, as were just two small direwolf carvings, rendered in a queer white stone that resembled bone. These two miniature wolves faced each other from opposite corners of the desk, keeping watch over everything that crossed their threshold.  He slid open the top drawer, and drew out various ledgers and accounts, and Robb gazed at them for a moment, sight unseeing before he put them back and slid it closed. He opened the largest draw on the bottom, expecting a bag of gold or silver, but what he found there broke his heart all over again.

Tucked within that space there were the small toys that he and his siblings had been given and then in turn abandoned as they grew up.  He saw the small wooden direwolf toy that his mother told him his uncle Edmure had commissioned for him as a babe at Riverrun, which had been a constant cribmate of first himself, and then Arya, and then Bran and Rickon, the latter who had claimed to outgrow it a matter of months before they’d found their direwolves. It was worn down by small fingers and teething gums, the at one time intricate carvings of the eyes and nose just a smooth hollow on either side of the small head. He next pulled out the small cloth rag doll that Sansa had slept with until she was four, when Arya had stolen it and accidentally torn it in half with her rough playing. That fight had been as fierce as any two sisters could have at the ages of four and two, respectively. The last Robb had seen of the doll, it had been in two pieces on the great hall floor, and neither Stark girl had wanted it.

_Jon had always wondered what had happened to Sansa’s Souffie, but father always just appeared as puzzled as anyone else when the question of the missing doll came up._

The Stark words were Winter is Coming, but Lord Eddard Stark had a heat in his heart that would’ve kept them all warm, no matter how cold it got or how high the snow fell  upon the ground.  

_And now winter was looming, and there was no Eddard Stark in Winterfell._

Robb wanted to dismiss the patiently quiet and waiting maester, just for the next few hours so he could sit and think on his father in this Stark space, but he knew that such whims wouldn’t keep the cold of winter at bay.

_I’m a Stark, and our words tell all that winter is coming. There’s too much to see to do indulge my boyish wants._

“Maester, what reports do you have for me that requires my eyes and ears?” He asked, hoarse from the clog of unshed tears in the back of his throat. “I fear this war is not yet finished, so I must settle as much here much as possible, for a return journey south is soon coming, once I’ve killed a sufficient amount of Ironborn.”

The small man turned from his task of lighting two torches by the door, giving some manner of light to the dark room.

“Well Your Grace, a few days prior we had word from a Deepwood rider, who claimed that his lord had begun the cleansing of the Ironborn from the western portion of the north.” Luwin was a man of learning and logic, and the same way he had instructed the Stark children so eloquently in lessons, he reported the results of martial matters. “Lord Glover has apparently pushed deep into the Wolfswood, and the fighting is going strongly in our favor, for the pirates have little love for the wood. This rider did warn that many of the ironborn are fleeing southwest, heading for the Stony Shore.”

Robb leaned over the expansive desk and trailed his finger from the faded emblem representing Deepwood Motte towards the insignia absent region of the western coast.

“Has there been any word from Torrhen’s Square, maester? Raven or rider?” He demanded briskly, concern making him aggressive.

“Last we heard they were under attack, by a monstrous Ironborn by the name of Cleftjaw. But by the raven we last received a few days past, Leobald Tallhart still holds the castle. Ser Rodrik was grumbling about taking some men and sorting that one out, but I was able to stall him when I heard you’d returned to the north sire.” He offered slowly, relief coloring his words at the end.

As it colored Robb as well.

_The honor of a man is a dangerous thing that can make a righteous deed into a possible tragedy._

_Benfred Tallhart proved that weeks ago, and Ser Rodrik almost proved it again, thinking to take men from the capitol castle to relieve a pittance. Well-meant but folly all the same._

“Tis good that you saw the wisdom in waiting for my mind in this Maester. We have the heir to Torrhen’s Square in the carts carrying the wounded, and it would do my heart a good to know that you personally have seen him and attested to his eventual recovery.” He admitted bluntly, a hard smile cresting his lips. “I gave a strong portion of riders to Lord Glover, and I expect the two and a half thousand men will suffice for his lands. Out of the two thousand that remain to me now, I plan on leaving an additional three hundred at Winterfell to walk the walls and patrol, a mix of northmen and riverlanders both, with the command of the garrison given to Lord Blackwood and his new ascended son, Lord Lucas Lonewood. That will make nearly a thousand to hold Winterfell in all. All the rest will I take with me as I push for Torrhen’s Square, and then beyond it. I tire of having squids on northern soil.”

The maester was clearly unsettled by the changes, for in his polite way, he sought to give alternative counsel.

“Sire, nearly a thousand is a great many mouths to feed. We’ve had the stores lightened first by the coming of King Robert, and then the calling of the banners, and lastly the harvest feast. So many more would sap us greater still.” He reasoned easily, his teachers face covering his countenance. “If I might offer another option Your Grace, why not take that thousand, and share them between the castles of Cerwyn, Torrhen’s Square and the Rills? House Ryswell has been eerily quiet of late, considering that they’d be a prime target in this Ironborn invasion, and we here at Winterfell would do just as well with four hundred walking the walls. Anymore and the men begin to tread upon one another. And for my last overstep, taking the command of Winterfell from Ser Rodrik would shame him publicly, and he’s served loyally Sire.”

Robb mulled on the man’s words for a minute, the sense of it all making it easy for him.

“As ever Maester, your counsel is necessary and appreciated.” Robb admitted baldly. “I think I will split the men between the two castles to the west should there be a need for greater garrisons, but rather than giving a portion to House Ryswell, I think I might restrain from doing so. The eradication of House Bolton will surely have reached them, and they were intertwined by marriage, though it’s fruit died with Domeric Bolton years ago. Regarding Ser Rodrik, my intent is to reward him for the many years of loyalty his family has shown the Starks of Winterfell. When I ride out in two days, I intend for him to be my voice to Lady Dustin. She’s been too silent in these trying times, and I trust no one else to impart the seriousness of my intent to strengthen the north. With the lady of Barrowton comes the Rills, and I must be sure of their loyalty, now more than ever. The temporary appointment of Lord Blackwood and his son to castellan of Winterfell is purely a means of acquainting Lord Lucas with the heart of the north. Now to other matters that press for the future.”

He paused here, as he thought on the great many changes that he’d be making to part of the northern political landscape.

“The Lannister power-grab saw a great many people who were close to my heart killed in the Red Keep. The Poole’s, my sister’s Septa Mordane, the guardsmen and so many servants, all killed for cruelties sake. They shall never be replaced in the esteem of my family, but the needs of Winterfell require replacements. I know Ser Rodrik has begun to train more guardsmen, but there are other empty posts Maester.” He stated softly, a knife thrust of raw guilt twisting his innards at the almost callous nature of the conversation.

“To that Sire, I’ve already sought to begin the process.” Luwin assured confidently, a small coating of pride covering his words. “Surely you noticed the young man Ser Rodrik barked at in regards to telling Cook of the expectations of a feast tonight? That, Your Grace, is Barvet and he’s being trained currently in the duties of a steward. He’s been learning his sums and letters, and is gaining competency quite quickly. Should he pass the muster of Lady Stark, I do suspect he’ll be a wonderful steward in time.”

_Lady Stark won’t forever be the mistress of Winterfell Maester Luwin, but that bridge can be crossed on that day, though irony demands I chuckle since I know it won’t be a Frey walking across that spanning._

“I’m sure my mother, and my future queen will both agree with your choice Maester, whoever she is. But there’s more I require of you, good man. I’ll need at least four more stewards in training from you, as well as four maesters from the Citadel in time. I look to you for the contacts you’ve kept over these years, to find me four good men that can perhaps become four great Maesters one day.”

Maester Luwin was seldom upended by any request, as far as Robb could remember being privy to, but this daunted him, he could see.

“Four of each, totaling eight Sire?” The small grey man asked, anxiety writ in the wrinkles of his face. “I fear that my other duties may suffer should I try to teach four more, whilst reopening the lines of communication with my old associates in Oldtown. Forgive me Sire, but between continuing to teach your brothers and then four more, I fear such an undertaking may be beyond my grasp.” He finished quietly, a sincere shame in his tone.

Robb peered at the man then, taking in the slope of his shoulders underneath the grey robe and the deeper lines of his face.

_This man is no one’s idea of spring, yet I lean on him as if he were a bull aurochs in the prime of his rut._

“This you won’t be doing alone. I’ve brought a healer from Greywater Watch, who has done wonders for the care of the wounded on the journey here. Lean on her, to aid you in the lessons to the stewards in training, while you send for the four maesters. When they arrive, their first task shall be taking over the education of the stewards to completion.” Robb said bluntly. “It won’t all be on you, Luwin.”

The already sloped shoulders drooped another foot in relief as his words sank in.

“Thank you, Your Grace. As I always knew, ruling well is something you’d have well in hand. Excuse me then, Sire-”

The small man was sweeping a bow when Robb interrupted his exit.

“I know I’ve made you a vastly busy man Luwin, but I require more of your time this day. You’ll forgive me, of course.”

The small man blushed, even as he quickly nodded.

“Of course, Sire. What else can I assist you with?”

Robb dropped his gaze back to the map on the desk, even as he began his query of the man’s knowledge.

“What can you tell me of House Frost?” He asked, curiosity clear in his voice. “Where were their lands, what was their positioning in the northern power sphere before their eradication?”

“Ahhh, my king has forgotten his lessons…” The old man chided him good-naturedly. “Well Your Grace, much isn’t recorded by the citadel of the ancient northern houses that were lost to time, but it’s a testament of Winterfell’s ancient standing that it’s library has some of the oldest known records of  ancient Westeros safe in its shelves. Were you to ask one of the eminent fresh maesters such a question, they’d likely have little to say, but after my many years here, I can tell you much.” He almost crowed with pleasure, the joy on his face taking years off his look.

“Well then speak to it Maester, other matters require my attention before I march again.” Robb broke in patiently, respect of his teacher softening his words.

“Well Sire, House Frost was a power on the western shore, nearly five thousand years ago, if the runic to common tongue translations from past men of learning are correct. They were closely allied with the kingdom of the wood, or the kingdom that the Glovers once held. From what I can glean from the many pages I’ve pored over Your Grace, at their peak they were an enormously wealthy and powerful kingdom in the western portion of the north, initially petty but growing towards preeminence of the entire western half of the north.” The maester leaned over the desk, allowing his skinny finger to sweep a hairs breath over the delicate skin towards the far western shores of the north. “I’m not sure, but I believe their kingdom was gaining ground, from the edge of the Wolfswood to what we today know as the Rills. The name of their primary seat is lost to time and legend Sire, but the location was believed to have been on what is now the Stony Shore.”

To Robb, it made little sense if what the Maester said was true of them.

“If they were so great and powerful, why am I now asking what happened to them? Surely they’d still be around in some form, even if they were greatly diminished by time?” He demanded eagerly, a boy’s curiosity upon him as he peered down at the faded map below his fingers.

“Well Sire, what the pages tell us doesn’t paint your ancestors in the greatest light.” Luwin warned with a wary color to his telling.

“The short of it is that the ancient Starks feared the strength and coveted the wealth of the relentlessly expanding Frost kingdom, for such resources would only help them in their millennia spanning war with the Boltons in the east, as the Red kings of the Dreadfort were still their  fiercest rivals in strength and wealth. Fearing eminent martial enclosure on both sides, the Stark kingdom plotted and conspired with the ambitious younger brother of a Wood king, a princeling. In exchange for their support in his ascent, he led a great hunt in the name of his well-loved brother during a Thrice Feast, as the pages called it. They feasted to the climbing strength of the two allied kingdoms, they feasted to the health of the harvest, and they feasted to the love of the hunt. And the third feast only happened after the Wolfswood was hunted by the two families and the snagged game was prepared and served later that day. The Wood prince led a merry hunt, and many laughed and made good with allies and friends. But he led them into a trap. The Frost royals and the much beloved Wood King were all slaughtered by a pack of monstrous wolves, and without their greatest leaders to rule them, the Frost kingdom fell to being led by distant cousins and relatives; men who weren’t up to the task of leadership in a swiftly growing kingdom. The Starks swept west in all their power, taking first the Frost seats and spoils, and then surrounded the newly crowned Wood King who had made cause with them in the first place. So it was, that the Woods fell to lords, and the Frosts fell to ruin. But while the Frosts lost all, the Starks merely won a bitter apple. They never gained the secret of the great Frost wealth, and the western shore has since always been the weakest part of the north. The bowed kingdom of the Wood had no taste for offering fealty, and instead fled south, becoming House Blackwood and reigning as riverland kings for hundreds of years. In their absence, a minor vassal who stayed soon rose to power, but eventually they too were brought low by Winterfell, and that was House Glover. As for house Frost, all which is known is that when they marched to war, the tales speak of the old gods literally shining upon them, granting them victory after victory.”

The Maester ended his story with relish, no doubt enjoying the payoff of all his hours secluded in the ancient library of Winterfell.

To Robb, it just made him inwardly blanch as he forcibly aligned the long past actions of his House more with the low handed antics of Tywin Lannister, than with the honor of Eddard Stark.

_My father always said that the Starks of the ancient past were hard cold men from hard cold times. Maybe that was what it took to unite the entire north under one banner, and finish the infighting for good, but an entire House eradicated just for fear and the gain of wealth. They were too powerful to keep aleash, so we sought to skin them for their pelt. And it weakened the north as a whole to do it. I slew the Boltons for the avarice and evil the men of that House did, but I had cause in that. This was ruthless ambition, should the telling be true._

Maester Luwin interrupted his bleak thoughts then, with the natural question to follow.

“Your Grace, might I ask why such a desire for knowledge of such a long dead House? The opportunity to share was greatly appreciated, but I do wonder after the why of it.” The grey man confessed in good cheer, his brown eyes shining.

“Because the House is no longer dead by my decree.” He grimly answered. “I’ve raised Jon from Snow to Hoarfrost, and while he thinks he’ll be made the Lord of Moat Cailin, he dared too much, though for good reason. Still, while I understand his boldness, I cannot sanction it, or I’ll never be rid of the well-intentioned sacrificial folly of men like my brother and Benfred Tallhart. And your telling has inspired me to right a wrong that the north has felt ever since it was done. My brother is Lord Jon Hoarfrost, scion of the reforged House Frost, so his seat will be on the Stony Shore, and my charge to him will be to make the weak western coast as strong as your telling implies it once was.”

Luwin gaped at him then, his jowls quivering in disbelief.

“Your Grace, you’ll be dooming him to a hard life of battle and barely noble poverty. There’s nothing on the western shore Sire. The coastal waters are near barren, forcing the fishermen there to row out farther than sense would allow just for the hope of a catch. Perchance you dream of a White Harbor for the west, but Your Grace, I must tell you that it’s impossible. There’s no trade, but for the unlikely chance that the Lannister or Greyjoys choose to, against all reason. Trade, no, but raid and bleed him, they will instead.” He finished sadly, a recommending loyalty to Jon shining in his words.

But Robb stood firm against it, even though his heart told him that he wasn’t being fair, that he’d have done the same in Jon’s position.

“Maester Luwin, the duty I give Jon is no more bleak than the life he had chosen for himself, being a man of the Watch. He’d be forever cold and at war, only with wildlings rather than Ironborn. In this I give him a lord’s agency and trust, so respect my will in this.” He ordered coolly, the chilly response widening the older man’s eyes, before he remembered himself, and politely acquiesced.

“Of course, forgive an old man his boldness, Sire.” The bow returned, and Robb let it complete this time.

“There’s nothing to forgive Maester, your loyalty to my brother speaks well of you.  One last question, Maester. “

The grey man wore his curiosity openly in his face, and perhaps a fair share of impatience.

“Anything you’d have of me, Your Grace.” He answered easily, a helpful look to his face.

Robb made a partial steeple with his thumbs and pointer fingers, and he let his eyes rest there, as he asked more of the faithful man.

“You’ve been to Castle Cerwyn, have you not? It’s only a half days’ ride from here, and you likely passed it on your journey here, all those years ago.”

Luwin cleared his throat delicately as he furrowed his brow, clearly combing through his memories for associations and contacts.

“Yes, I’m certain I have sire. It’s situated on the western turn of the White Knife if I recall correctly, and I do believe I stayed there for one day when I first was assigned to Winterfell. There was a summer snow, and my Oldtown escort had no intention of challenging those northern elements, when a day or two’s respite was possible.” He smiled then, a memory dancing behind his wise eyes.

 “Maester Rhodry is the Maester there, a good one too, if one can look past his habit of bending tomes excessively.”

There was a fond chiding in his tone as he reminisced, which was soon lost as his mind and eyes focused on Robb for the unasked question.

Which Robb was only happy to oblige, as he lifted his gaze from his hands to the small man sitting across from him.

“My question is simple, though I suspect your answer might not be. Maester Luwin, having seen Castle Cerwyn, can you give me an estimate on just how much it would cost to erect a similar seat?” He asked bluntly, spearing the maester to the chair with his eyes.

Luwin blew his breath through his lips, even as he leaned over the desk with his hands.

“Well sire, you’re correct in your suspicions.  A tailored answer to that question depends on a manner of different variables. One, how far is the quarry the stone will be purchased from? Two, what’s the difficulty in clearing away the terrain that will allow the foundations to be set. Three, what quality of stone will be used? Four, where will the workers be coming from? Five, what’s the weather like?” He counted off each query with a finger flick, until he just held up one hand.

“Your Grace, each of these conditions being met with an ideal answer, for a castle the size of Cerwyn; I believe it’d be around two hundred thousand dragons. Things not being ideal, I’d fill in the gaps to make it three hundred thousand. But that’s for a small, stout castle. For a good sized seat, I’d make it five hundred thousand to start with, and give room to seven hundred thousand should there be problems. In our learning at the citadel, we’re taught that the cost of building a Lord Paramount seat is so prohibitive that it’s unlikely there will ever be another raised to compare to the present ones. The transfer of power is more likely than a new one being raised. The way your mother’s House came to rise would be the standard, we’re taught. The last one built, Harrenhal, beggared two kingdoms in the process. Since those records are still available, it’s been studied and we know that the cost of that seat would be nearly five million dragons. The sad part of that tale is for all the lives lost and people impoverished in its construction, it was soon broken by Aegon’s Conquest.”

 Robb placed his eyes on the map spread out before him, and softly dismissed the man.

“Thank you Maester Luwin, as always you’re a great help to me. You may go now.”

The small man bowed for the third time and slipped out the solar, leaving Robb with his thoughts and his father’s ghost.

Robb didn’t know how long he sat, running his hands over the treasures his father kept hidden in the room and his thoughts over the information the Maester had shared but he was there for a span of time.

Before long he got up and grabbed the flint from the mantle above the hearth, he turned it over a few times in his palm, eyes noting the worn parts where the hand of his father had gripped it when it was his solar alone. Striking the tool against the stone until the small shower of sparks took, and the makings of a fire illuminated the room.

He crouched there for a while, thoughts of his father and the realm circling his head.

_I made large promises to the lords of both the riverlands and the north, but the resources necessary are vast and likely beyond my reach right now. But Father would say a sword is only as strong as the man wielding it is as true to his word._

Robb stood up and looked over the map on the desk, his eyes taking in the marked geography points and castles.

_There are three stone quarries in the north, with the best one being at the outskirts of Glover territory. They have granite there and small reserves of marble too. Father said that’s where the White Harbor marble came from. The Flint of the Mountain quarry close to the northern clans is sufficient for castle repair work, but little else. The one found on the Karstark and Umber territorial lines has mostly fallen into disuse, as the two houses are forever clashing over who owns it. So none use it instead._

He stood there for a while, turning things over in his head while his finger traced all over the delicate skin.

When he heard the telltale squeaks of circling rounds, he knew that at last his brother Bran had sought him out.

Robb crossed the room quickly, pulling open the door before his brother could knock.

Bran was plainly startled by the suddenness of the movement, leaning back involuntarily before minding himself and slowly rolling himself into the room, as Robb stepped back to give him room.

His brother took an audible sniff when he crossed the threshold and promptly stopped his determined trek, fiddling with the thick blanket wrapped around his middle while looking around the room slowly as if committing everything to memory before Robb changed it all.

_Surely he knows I wouldn’t. He must know that much._

“It feels so much larger without Father being alive, you know. It’s almost like the room can swallow you alive.” Bran began easily, as if he were talking about cook making extra lemon cakes at supper, rather than the fact that their father was lost to them forever. “So many things I remember from being smaller, like I remember being in here at Rickon’s age, and it seemed so much warmer in my memory.” He ended solemnly, looking so much like Jon in that moment that their lady mother would roast onions with her gaze if she could witness it.

“While I was gone, when you had to consult with Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik, you didn’t meet with them here then?” Robb asked bemusement thick in his words as he found his way back to the comfortable chair that still smelled of their father.

Bran smiled sadly at that, a man’s sorrow heavy in his blue eyes as he shook his head to the negative even as he began nervously tugging and twisting at the blanket swaddling him.

“We would meet in the godswood, as you did with mother before you marched to war. Maester Luwin told me of your meeting there, but not what you discussed, while I slept still.” He added hastily, as if to spare the good maester a king’s wrath. “After news of father came, I couldn’t think of anywhere I less wanted to be than here in this room with all my memories of him. And then, once you were named the king, it felt even less like a place that I should be.”

Robb eyed Bran now, and felt a heavy sadness for the loss of the happy, joyous little boy he had been before the thrice damned Robert Baratheon brought his accursed family to Winterfell.

_That fat sot of a king took more than my father south when he left Winterfell. He stole the very joy from my home and family, all because he couldn’t be bothered to push away from his banquet of food, wine and women long enough to rule the kingdom he fought and killed for. He couldn’t find the time to know the woman he married, and the children she gave him. If the only similarity we share as kings is in our names, I’ll consider myself blessed by the old gods._

“Well, by any measure you’ve done well in my absence Bran.” He assured him softly, a strand of pride threading through his low spoken words. “Knowing you have Winterfell and the north well in hand, it makes it easier for me to fight this war. You’ve acted a true prince, which is exactly what the north needs in these dangerous times.”

At the word dangerous, Bran’s bright blue eyes flashed and his lips pursed in consideration, as if the thoughts pulling at him were so ponderous in scale. His hands were routinely fisting and releasing the blankets now, and Robb was concerned at the tension that hunched his shoulders.

“Is that why you destroyed House Bolton then? Because Lord Bolton was dangerous?”

At his brother’s words, Robb was instantly returned to that windswept meadow weeks prior that was just outside the great expanse of the Hornwood forest, surrounded by his lords and knights.

Lord Tytos Blackwood had gone at his king’s order to fetch his second son who had been at the rear of the host, stone-faced and solemn as his long strides swiftly carried him through the assembly of men.

He returned quickly, his equally tall and thin son at his back and clearly nervous, his eyes fixed upon the bloody sword in the king’s gloved hand and the bloody direwolf at the king’s side.

“Be at peace, Lord Lucas.” Robb stated as he gave Grey Wind a couple of fond pats. “You fought well today and have done nothing that I find fault with. I have you here because I have need of you.”

At the assurance of his king, the fear that had him looking a northern shade of pale left, and he found his knees in the dry grass and fisted his hand over his heart.

“I’m no lord Sire, but anything you would have of me.” He declared earnestly, his youthful sincerity earning him scattered small smiles from the riverlords, juxtaposed by the stone-like mien of the northmen.

“I would have this not just from you Lord Lucas, but all those who are present here today, with the expectation that when this war is over, it will be taken back to your halls and hearths, to be taught henceforth now until the end of time.” He commanded, his voice a hammer upon their ears. “Ramsay Snow fell to the crime of encroaching upon another House’s lands and beyond that, hunting, raping and flaying the common people of the north.  He did this because it was to him a pleasure. He did this because his father left him in command of the Bolton lands, so they were also Roose Bolton’s crimes as well. That is why I hung one and beheaded the other. Any who feels that it is their right to abuse the people of my realm as they see fit, can expect a similar end!” He snarled to the silent meadow, his dripping sword now thrust in the direction of the tree where two bodies still swayed on branches, and a third lay headless upon the earth.

He turned to look at the still kneeling riverlander who had again been visited by that unfavorable pallor, and held his gaze, bright blue locked into a grey so dark that they appeared black like his father’s cloak.

“Will you be loyal to me and mine, giving what is our due, acting as an honorable shield to them that need your strength and compassion while keeping my commands and laws? Will you heed me in peace-time and obey me in times of war?” He demanded, Grey Wind silent at his side.

“I-I swear Your Grace, by the old gods to be your loyal man.” Lucas Blackwood promised, his gaze shining with emotion.

“Then arise as Lord Lucas Lonewood, a lord of the north, ruler of everything from the Lonely Hills to Long Lake. You know my charge to you. Meet it and teach it to your future sons and heirs. You have my leave to decide upon a sigil of your own choosing. ” Robb said, his bluntness reflected by his turning to the proud Lord of Raventree Hall and simply clapping his hand on the older man’s sinewy shoulder as he walked past.

The gnarled hand of Lord Tytos Blackwood caught the gesture and squeezed his thanks, almost gaining a wince from Robb due to the surprising strength.

“Your Grace, I thank you.” He rasped reedily, a solemn gratitude bare in his face. “You cannot understand what you’ve done here. This is all my house has ever truly desired and you’ve done this for us-“.

Robb cut him off there with a raised hand and a level stare.

“No, my lord, nothing I did was solely for House Blackwood. What I’ve done here was decided upon for the same reason every decision I’ve made since you lords chose me as your king has been done. For the betterment of those who look to me as king. That is why I resolved to tear down House Bolton, and raise your son to a northern lordship. House Lonewood will be a tall tower to symbolize the height of honor and strength, a testament of opposition to the depravity and lowness of House Bolton. For the betterment, my lords.” He stated as he turned to the assembled lords watching and listening, seeking to meet each eye in turn.

“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t made mistakes. The same impetus spurred me to offer alliance with the squids, and they spat on my hopes, whilst also teaching me a necessary lesson. The survival and future prosperity of this great kingdom must be self-determined or it shall be forever bowed. Our greatest strength will come from within its borders, from the fertile soils of the riverlands to the hidden treasures of the north. Our great realm will stand strong.” He finished, looking beyond the heads of the lords present and past the Hornwood trees in the distance, seeing the kingdom he ruled.

He saw peopled lands, thriving villages and towns with happy, fed smallfolk.

Emblems fluttered over strong castles, familiar and unknown, sigils both ancient and new but higher above them all was the grey and white standard of House Stark, the legendary snarling direwolf.

“THE KING IN THE NORTH!!”  Was heard from Lord Rickard Karstark, his roar worthy of Greatjon Umber.

Rather than taking up the cry, Lord Blackwood shouted his own honorific, which soon swelled up around the meadow, until even bristly Rickard Karstark joined in and the cold meadow was as noisy as the great hall of Riverrun on that fateful night, so long ago.

“THE HIGH KING!!”

The chants faded back into memory, and he was back in his father’s solar with his younger brother, still looking for easy answers to hard questions.

“No Bran, not just because he was dangerous.” Robb said with a heavy sigh, his stomach knotted in unease. “I killed Roose Bolton because in his name, his son hunted, raped and flayed the women of the north. He also invaded the Hornwood lands for ambitions sake. Thank the old Gods that he never made it as far as Castle Hornwood. If I allowed the efforts of Lord Hornwood and his son Daryn to be repaid with the defilement of his wife and Daryn’s mother, I can’t imagine I’d be able to ever look in a mirror again. As I told my lords after I took Bolton’s head, it was for the betterment of the kingdom brother.”

Bran just looked at him for a long moment, his brows furrowed above pursed lips, even as his fingers still flexed inside the blankets.

Robb got to his feet and swiftly came from behind the table, catching his brother’s hands and halting their manic movement, as he took to his knee beside the chair that his brother experienced the world from.

“Bran, these blankets you cover yourself in. What’s the reason?” He asked, a sad curiosity behind his words. “Are you cold? Would thicker garments be more to your liking? I can have new clothes provided, you’re a prince brother and you need only say a word.”

Head bowed, Bran snatched his hands from his brother’s, and Robb tried not to be hurt by the action as he straightened his back until he towered over his brother.

_I’ve been away for a long while, and Bran probably isn’t used to people fussing over him anymore. Nobody likes being pitied, I imagine, especially not Bran who only ever wanted to be a legendary knight. To be admired for his ability was his hearts wish._

His hands free, they quickly returned to their restless tugs and pulls of the blankets even as he raised his head.

“No, the clothes I have are fine. It’s just that ever since I fell, I never know when I make water, so the blankets are there to mask the smell and I touch them to see if they’re wet or soiled.”

Robb had never heard his brother sound so small and ashamed, not even when he was scolded for continuing to climb the walls of Winterfell by his parents.

Unconsciously sucking his teeth, Robb found himself cursing Robert Baratheon and his godless court for the second time that day.

_First he came to take my father, and then someone close to him snatched my little brother’s joy. Hero of the Trident my arse._

Bran peered up at him, sad blue eyes shining underneath the mop of rich brown hair, the fire of their mother’s Tully breeding threaded throughout, streams of flame in the northern soil. He bit his lower lip and a snort slipped up through the thick hair and drew Robb from his harsh thoughts.

“It’s not you I find fault with Bran.” He ground out, not bothering to soften his tone. “I find myself wishing Robert Baratheon and his whole damned court never made it to Winterfell but instead was swallowed up by the swamps of the Neck. So many good people would still be with us, father included. And you’d still be barefooted climbing high on these walls, untouchable by all but the sun.” He thrust his hand through his hair, feeling tangles break as he finished the motion.

“It’s not fair Robb, but Jojen Reed always tells me that life isn’t fair.” Bran admitted gravely, a sad smile looking entirely too comfortable on his young face as he looked down at his coverings. “That’s the only thing he thinks we can say surely about the gods. They’re not fair to the highborn or lowborn either. I might be broken, but at least I wasn’t hunted and flayed like the Hornwood girls. So I’m lucky in that, at least.” He said, a grim faith in his eyes.

“Jojen Reed….” Robb mused, resolving to seize the welcome turn in the conversation. “Did he do as he should’ve and given you his pledge or do i need to have him attend me?”

Bran blushed at that, heat suffusing his cheeks as he snapped his head upwards, eyes looking for his brother.

“No Robb, the first thing Jojen did when they showed up in the middle of the Harvest feast was to share the oaths in the name of his father, Lord Howland. “ He offered, clearly in a hurry to wipe away the non-existent tarnish on his friends repute.

“They both did, actually. Jojen and his sister Meera pledged House Reed’s loyalty together.”

There was a telling sweetness in the way his brother spoke the name of the Reed girl, something similar to the way Sansa had skipped around Winterfell telling all who would suffer and listen after King Robert announced his intentions of joining House Stark to the royal family.

She had chirped Joffrey’s name in a like manner.

_And he repaid her crush with our father’s head on a spike. I wonder how she says his name now._

“So I take it you trust the Reed children then? They’re good people in your eyes?” Robb asked in a low tone, doing his best to imitate the way their father would ask simple questions of profound importance.

Bran looked almost aggrieved at the insinuation that his friends could be thought of as anything but good.

His eyebrows rose up comically, and he stopped fidgeting with the blanket entirely, instead drawing in his breath and puffing out his chest until he resembled their sister’s poor, put upon late Septa Mordane. 

Robb’s hand was already in the air, forestalling the impassioned gale before it could unleash itself. 

“I can see that you’re ready to defend them to the point of petty treasons, so they must’ve made quite the impression little brother.” But when he lowered that hand, it made a fist upon the warm oak of the desk. “As someone else once made upon me, back when I was a little younger than you. Learn from my mistakes Bran. They’re one of the few benefits to being a younger brother, as our father once told Jon and I.”

Though Robb had sought to take the fervor out of Bran’s response, his efforts were ignored.

“Meera and Jojen are nothing like Theon!” He barked in disgust. “Nobody liked Theon when he was here, only you. Everybody likes the Reeds, except for the Freys, and they don’t count because they’re stupid.”

That hung in the air for a moment, heavy and pungent in its implications, until Bran heard the unsaid remainder and he paled greatly.

“Robb…” Was all he got out before his king’s large hand was back In the air, Robb’s auburn head turned towards the crackling fire.

 “You’re right Bran, in both your estimation of the Reeds and my folly with Theon.” Robb admitted, shame and inward recrimination thickening his accent.  
“Our mother advised me to use caution in regards to trusting Theon Greyjoy and his fool father, and all I could counter her sense with was “I’m the king”. And now, the people of the north have suffered because I knew so much, or truthfully, so little. Jon didn’t like Theon, Mother didn’t like Theon, our sisters didn’t like Theon and apparently you didn’t either. Father tolerated him, but he didn’t make the fool mistake of trusting him. Only I did, and my doing left us open to betrayal. He crowed about intending to snatch Winterfell from me, this man who I loved like a brother. Mother always felt Jon was the biggest threat to our birthright, but it was the noble ward who actually tried.” Robb felt the sting of bitter tears at the back of his eyes but he blinked them back angrily as he glared at his fist.

Bran must’ve leaned towards Robb, for his chair creaked as it slid forward an inch, touching the other side of the desk.

“Mother was wrong about Jon, and you were wrong about Theon, but you both meant well. “

His brother’s surety was eerie, coming from a boy who had only seen nine namedays.

“I still remember the lessons on the Blackfyre Rebellions that Maester Luwin taught me.  Jon’s not like that, but apparently Ramsay Snow was. The same thing with Theon. Jojen says that we must be brave especially in trying times. You trusting Theon was brave, even if he wasn’t worth it. You only wanted good to come of it.” Bran closed the gate there, locking away judgments and castigation for the sake of his sibling and king.

It would’ve been easy for Robb to accept the words of his little brother and the escape of failure they offered, but a man faces his truths.

“An action well meant, doesn’t keep it from being folly all the same, Bran. People died because I meant well at the Green Fork, and people died because I meant well in regards to Balon Greyjoy.” The name in his mouth was vile, as if it were a living curse. “The violent ends they met, cannot be waved away with well intentions. They deserved more from their betters. They deserved more from me. And that is what I resolve to do.”

He stood then, frowning as he did so and looked at his brother.

“I mean to leave in the morning with Ser Rodrik at my side. In his place, I leave Lord Blackwood and his son as castellans of Winterfell. They’re good men, warriors both and are blood of the first men, just like us. Do you know their words, little brother?”

Bran frowned himself now, glaring at his hands while mentally tumbling through countless memories of lessons at the maesters table.

“Though in darkness we tread?” He uttered with a testing edge to his answer.

“Aye Bran. When I leave on the morrow, that’s how my men and I will travel and I need to know that you’ll heed Lord Blackwood as you heeded Ser Rodrik.” He tilted his brother’s head back up with a finger beneath the chin. “I need your strength little brother.”

Bran didn’t make him wait long.

“You have it.” He stated with a firm sureness in his voice that made him sound half a man.

Robb sighed in relief even as he took his hand away from his brother’s face.

“There’s much more to be said Bran, but time is short. Where would Rickon be now, I mean to speak with him before the feast, for tomorrow we ride out at first light.” He asked quietly, his mind already on the morning march.

His fingers busy in their flexing, Bran sighed, weariness beyond his years in that escape of air.

“When Rickon is angry he’ll go to the crypts with Shaggy as company. Hodor has to carry me, with Summer next to us to get him back outside.”

Robb nodded at that and crossed from behind the desk to the door, opening it and holding it for his brother.

Only to see two enormous figures languidly rise to their feet in the darkened hall, eyes aglow in the dark.

Summer was smaller than Grey Wind, but it took nothing away from the sheer size of the animal.

Robb patted his brother’s wolf on the neck, even as he stood to one side for his brother’s chair.

“Thank you Bran. You’ve been so strong, and it’s what allowed me to fight so hard in the south.” He confessed earnestly. “You just need to be strong for a little bit longer, and then we’ll be back for good. Mother and the girls, as well. I know I said it before, but that was before I fought the Lannisters. I have their measure now.” He assured with a confidence he felt in the marrow of his bones.

“I know you mean it Robb”, was all he got from his brother as he wheeled himself from the solar into the warm hallway.

Robb stared after his hunched form in the chair as it rolled away, thinking on the changes from his Bran of memory to his little brother of today.

_The Lannisters tried to kill him twice, and all they succeeded in doing was making him wiser. And left me angrier. Angry enough to blot their bloodline out the same way I did House Bolton. It would be deserved._

Robb was taken from his thoughts by the cold nose of Grey Wind nudging his elbow, the enormous grey wolf keening low as he looked at Robb with those large golden eyes.

“That was the wise brother, heh boy?” He asked the wolf, fisting the soft fur that formed the ruff around the animal’s thick neck. “Now, let us see about the wild one.” Grey Wind only snorted at that as they set off down the darkened halls.

The walk through the large castle was slow, and Robb periodically stopped to just place his hand against the walls and take in their warmth.

 It was during one of these pauses that he was nearly accosted by Lord Tytos and his newly raised son, Lord Lucas.

Robb knew that Lord Blackwood wasn’t happy with the charge he’d placed on him following the battle against the Dreadfort soldiers, but Robb had hoped to make his return to Winterfell as brief and busy as possible so as to avoid exactly this.

“Your Grace, I know this isn’t the best time but I must ask you to reconsider the unmerited honor you’ve given to us.” Lord Tytos wasn’t a man to beg, but he was coming as close as Robb had ever seen him. “The other lords will surely whisper of First Men favor and a bias against the Andals, which we both know isn’t true, but these things have a way of getting away from us Sire. Not to mention, ever since you told us at Riverrun that you’d be taking a portion of Riverlords north, I was hoping I could see the Wolfswood with my blood beside me. To see the lands we once held as father and son was all I ever wanted on this march. Ser Marq Piper would be-“

Robb held up his hand at that point, once again cutting off Lord Blackwood as needed.

“My lord Blackwood, I’ve already shared my orders with both my lords on the march, and then with the maester of this castle. It is done. You served my lord uncle well in holding Riverrun against the ambitions of the Kingslayer. Now, I give you the chance to serve an even greater cause. Hold my seat when I cannot, and guide my brothers in wisdom. I’ve seen your sons, and know your worth in this. As well as the castellan of Winterfell taking a cursory patrol of the edge of Wolfswood would only be circumspect. After all, wildlings may be afoot.” He ended with a small grin and a dip of the head.

Lord Blackwood opened his mouth, and the look in his eye informed Robb of his intent to continue the conversation, but Grey Wind shifted at Robb’s side, and Lord Lucas made himself known.

The tall thin lordling placed a skinny hand on his father’s shoulder and somehow quelled his discontent.

“Father, our king has the right of it. He honors us, and we still can see the lands of our ancestors. Just not right now. He has given us much, the least we can do is give him peace before he marches out.” His grey gaze was at once eerie and familiar to Robb as he met his eyes. “Forgive us the interruption, Your Grace.”

Robb was already patting Grey Wind into ease as he looked on the younger man.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Lord Lonewood.”

Both bowed and went back the way they came, and Robb and Grey Wind continued on, giving greetings to familiar faces and asking after those unknown.

When he and his furry companion at last reached the large double doors that guarded the stairs leading into the crypt of the Stark kings and lords, Robb paused as distant memories swam through his mind.

Both he and Jon as boys, telling each other secrets in the only place that could be counted as nearly always empty.

 Sansa wanting to follow her brothers as a little girl, only to grow scared and reluctant when approaching the cold halls of the dead.

Arya he remembered also being scared, but bullishly following onward, her small fists clenched and ready to fly at any moment’s notice, often with Bran right next to her, big blue eyes locked on every shadow and breath catching at a creaky breeze.

Rickon was too young when Robb was last here, and still most happy in the arms of their mother to ever dare the crypts.

_Now I am told that this is where he spends most of his time, outside the Godswood. My poor little brother, growing up under the hard eyes of the Gods and the dead._

Robb pushed open the heavy iron doors, cringing at the loud protesting groan and Grey Wind loped inside as Robb grabbed for an unlit torch from the crate that was vigilantly kept stocked.

Stepping in, he thoughtlessly stretched forth his arm until the crackle of the flame leapt from the already lit brazier to the wrapped wood held aloft in his hand. 

The second flame grew, and as it did the cold dark around him became visible.

He saw the stairs leading to the first level, where the oldest Stark kings were buried.  On those same stairs, years ago little Arya had slipped on a loose stone when sneakily following her older brothers, and the blood and noise was enough to wake the dead, as Old Nan would say.

He remembered Jon carrying her inside the Great Hall, sitting beside her as she cried and holding her under his arm until he was scared off by the frosty arrival of their father’s wife.

Her gift for her sneakiness was small scar remained on the back of her neck, only hidden by the hair that was now long enough to cover it.

It was Jon who took it upon himself to find some mortar and a trowel and fixed the old stairs, and their father took him aside and praised him, softly but earnestly as was his way.

Grey Wind was watching him now from the first landing, the golden eyes as sad as an animal has ever looked.

With the noise the doors made at their opening, Robb had no illusions that Rickon still thought he was alone with the dead.

The great kings, the bad ones, and after Torrhen Stark at the Trident, the good and bad lords of Winterfell.

They continued down, Robb seeing the familiar frowns and stares that had watched him and his siblings grow.

Until he saw a face that he had known beyond frowns, beyond sternness and coldness.

The stoneworker knew his craft, but Eddard Stark had been more than the chilly lord who held court in the Weirwood Hall.

He’d been soft words of guidance and encouragement for his children and wife, as well as a lord who knew the importance of a life, be they born in a castle or in a cottage.

He was a strong squeeze on the shoulder of a guard, or patient ear to the lips of a servant.

He was the Lord of Winterfell, and his death had left a hole in the world, from which now only chaos spewed out.

Robb looked at his father for a long moment, Grey Wind silent as he gazed with golden eyes at something in the dark.

“You promised to bring them back.” A small, angry voice said, and for a moment, Robb thought it was his inner guilt at his childish naiveté speaking to him, until Grey Wind moved and his tail nearly knocked Robb to the side.

His youngest brother was there, all icy hot eyes and clenched fists, a large black shade drifting in the darkness behind him. Only green fire revealed the eyes of Shaggydog.

“You promised, but he’s dead now and he can’t come back!” The boy shouted, tears glistening in his eyes, an angry blue that left Robb scorched as they moved from him to the new statue of their father, Eddard Stark.

_Rickon…._

Robb took a step towards the last son of Eddard Stark, moving without thought but the boy was faster than expected. With one last furious glare at his brother, he took off for the stairs, his enormous direwolf a shadow at his back.

“I let him down father.” Robb admitted to the tomb that held the boiled remains of the greatest man who ever lived. “I let them all down. If I failed four, how can I do right by a few million?”

The stone face of his father held no answers, but the darkness gave its say.

“You can do right by the people of the north King Stark, by first marching all your swords and spears to the Wall and treating with Mance Rayder.” A rough woman’s voice offered bluntly. “Treat with him and his horde, and defeat the monsters he’s fleeing south for fear of.”

Grey Wind didn’t snap or growl, so Robb knew he had nothing to fear at the moment.

“Step into the light woman, and show yourself.” He ordered, impatience making him harsh.

With the rustling of metal, a lean figure stepped into the candlelight, her weather-bitten face impassive in the gloom.

“You’re the wildling who tried to kill Bran…”Robb murmured in recognition, a hard edge twisting his tone. “Why are you free to move about my castle unsupervised?!” He demanded now, fury lacing every word.  
“My name is Osha, King Stark, and I’m the wildling that tried to steal the little lord’s horse, is all.” She corrected quickly, eyes flickering to the direwolf at Robb’s side. “I’m also the wildling that watches over the littlest lord, for everyone else is too craven of the beast beside him to dare.” Her eyes flicked to his boldly, before settling back on Grey Wind.

But Robb didn’t need Grey Wind to show his displeasure. He had bite enough himself.

“No woman, your man sliced my brother’s leg with his blade.” He growled at the memory of it, wondering why hadn’t taken her head off that day. “My maester had to clean and stitch it closed himself. The fact that my brother cannot feel pain doesn’t change the actions of your party that day.”

Without reservation, she threw herself to the floor now, Robb nearly wincing himself to hear the audible smack of her knees meeting the stone floor. She might as well have plucked a flower for all the pain she showed, even as her shackled hands slapped together in supplication.

“Forgiveness King Stark, for we were just a desperate bunch of fools to do so. Stiv has been made to answer for his cruelty, Halla and the others as well. Fear made us rash, but we only wanted to be south king! All we wanted was to be away from them demons in the dark!”

Robb felt his nose wrinkling even as words unbidden fell from his lips.

“Demons? Speak sense woman.” Robb barked, wondering why he was even having this conversation with this savage in the tomb of his ancestors.

“I am King Stark, with all the senses my mother gave me as a girl. Mance Rayder flees the White Walkers, and he’s doing so with all our people. Our young, our old, our strong, our weak. Warriors and farmers, giants and mammoths, all hurry south. Any foolish enough to stand and fight die and rise again with a demon’s blue eyes.” She groveled, a genuine terror in her face.

_The White Walkers and giants? Old Nan has terrorized generations of Stark children for years with bedtime stories of the legendary creatures, but he wasn’t a boy in the nursery anymore. Such beliefs were for boyhood, and kingship required more._

“You don’t hear me King Stark, not truly but send your important scribbles to the Wall.” She challenged him even as she slowly regained her feet. “Ask them if Mance Rayder has a host of one hundred thousand moving south, and then ask the mouse man here if ever did a King-Beyond-the-Wall number such a host. There’s warriors with Mance, sure and lots of them. But also those who’ve never held a weapon, alongside the old and weak. It’s beyond an army King Stark. It’s an entire people fleeing things that your lot don’t believe in.”

With that, she affected a terrible bow and walked towards the stairs leading to the exit, a tiny clinking in the iron clasps on her wrists and ankles.

He looked at the spot where she knelt for a moment, noting the blood specks from the impact before turning with a sigh back to the effigy of Eddard Stark.

_She cannot be telling it true. Wildlings are superstitious savages, more likely to eat one another than trade together. But as King in the North, I must make sure my northern border is secure, even if it’s from an army of wildlings and their king, who uses bedtime stories to swell his numbers. Father would do no less._

With one last look, Robb patted Grey Wind and turned for the stairs himself.

 

                                                                                                *******

 

The feast that night was a rowdy affair, men too long away from the comforts of a castle eagerly taking a respite, even if only for a night. The high table was subdued, the palpable anger of Rickon making conversation stilted and sparse.

Still, Robb enjoyed his men’s happiness and made that his focus, ignoring the looks the servants were giving him as he sat in his father’s seat, the lords seat. He retired early himself, after a curt reminder that they were setting out tomorrow for the ending of the Ironborn presence in the north.

The deafening cheers at his back as he strode out were heartening, even as he made for the maester’s tower.

The old man was clearly poring over tomes, a heap of letters in a pile on the edge of the desk swaying dangerously from the breeze that followed Robb in after Maester Luwin opened the door.

“Your Grace, I expected you to still be preoccupied with feasting your men.” He stammered as Robb walked past him inside. “I’ve written to my contacts but I’ve not yet sent them. Ravens are all out but one, as of now but I expect several by the day after tomorrow Sire.” He explained breathlessly.

Robb looked around the room with a critical eye, seeing the books that used to be in the library before his brother’s would be assassin set it aflame in his guile.

“You saved many of them, I see.” Robb offered respectfully. Luwin followed his eyes and then snorted, even as he puffed out his chest.

“No Your Grace, I saved most of them.” He boasted, a peacock draped in grey. “This castle holds some of the oldest writ outside the Citadel of Oldtown, and I would’ve been damned if I let such a treasure trove go up in flame because of the evil ambitions of men.”

Robb chuckled at the animosity in his teacher’s voice, even as he centered his mind on the reason for coming.

“Do any of these treasured scribbles speak on the past Kings-Beyond-the-Wall? The size of their hosts, and the make ups, perhaps?” He asked, still looking at the scrolls and books the maester had squirreled away.

“A few do, Sire but the most recent attempts are the best detailed. Raymun Redbeard was the last, and if my memory serves, he’s said to have crossed the Wall with perchance thirty thousand men, which was said to be the greatest wildling army ever to do so.” Luwin mused, even as he scratched the top of his ear with his drooping sleeve. “Though I’d doubt it was actually anywhere close to thirty thousand warriors, Your Grace. Men have a way of embellishing their defeated foes so as to make their victory even greater in comparison.” Luwin bore a small grin as he pulled a dusty tome from a shelf.

Robb smiled as well, even as he turned to place his eyes on the cluttered desk.

“You’re not wrong Maester. When I defeated Jaime Lannister in the Whispering Wood, and routed his armies around Riverrun, there couldn’t have been more than fifteen thousand men combined bearing Lannister colors between the two battles. Yet to hear the foolish tell it, the lions had sixty thousand men, split evenly between Lord Tywin and his murdering son. I don’t correct the tales, as it gives my men courage and faith, but I do know of the folly of prideful and ultimately stupid men.” He finished coldly, eyes fleecing the desk for something.

“King Robb, what do you truly seek here?” Luwin asked carefully, a grandfather’s patience clear in his voice.

Sighing, Robb dragged a hand through his hair, overlong now that he’d been warring for over a year.

“Has there been any word from the Wall, speaking on queer occurrences?” He groused grumpily, the hawkish face of the wildling floating in his mind.

 Maester Luwin’s wrinkled face alit at once, even as he nimbly pulled out a still unopened scroll bearing the unbroken black wax seal of the Nights Watch. “I was going to bring it to you sire, as it just arrived this morning. The poor thing that brought it was in a bad way, and I’ve been tending it, hoping for a recovery.” His hand extended, Robb gingerly took the parchment and peeled his thumb through the hardened black wax.

Robbs eyes widened as he read, even as his heart skipped in his chest.

_To the Lord of Winterfell,_

_Lord Commander Mormont is dead and Ser Denys Mallister has been chosen to succeed him. His squire Samwell Tarly is also dead.  Help is needed. A deserter ranger named Mance Rayder has united the wildling clans and is moving towards the Wall with all his people in tow, numbering upwards of one hundred thousand. We on the Wall barely number one thousand, and have not the bodies to man all the castles of the Wall. If the north acts now, we can break them before they reach the Wall. Otherwise, it’ll be too late._

_Maester Aemon_

All Robb did was hand the letter to Luwin who settled his spectacles on his nose and peered at it, before shaking his head and reading it again.

“They must be mistaken sire. There’s been no wildling army larger than Raymun’s, and his thirty is in dispute. One hundred thousand warriors is unfathomable Robb!” Luwin stammered, forgetting the honorific in his shock.

Robb didn’t even hear it.

“Osha knew Maester Luwin.” He stated with a heavy heart. “Everything in this letter, she already told me of, except for the death of Lord Mormont. According to her, that one hundred thousand isn’t just warriors. It’s their old, young, sick and healthy. Giants and mammoths are included in that number as well. This isn’t a war band she says, it’s an exodus.” He ended sourly, eyes devouring a map of the north hanging on the wall.

“An exodus?” The small man wondered. “An exodus from what, sire?”

Robb’s shoulders clenched even as he glared at the letter in the smaller man’s hand.

“From White Walkers Maester Luwin. The woman tells me that the Others have returned, and that’s why the wildlings are trying to empty the entire land beyond the wall and come south. And I must admit, it makes a grim sort of sense.” Robb smiled but there was no warmth in it.

“No Your Grace, it doesn’t!” Luwin stated emphatically. “It’s the very definition of nonsense. The wildlings are an uneducated people, given to flights of whim and fancy. They cannot be the final say in this.” He declared contemptuously.

Robb waved a hand dismissively at the maester, even as he leaned over and frowned at the letter he’d taken from the man.

“No matter how wrong they might be about the reason they’re coming south, it doesn’t change the fact that they are in truth marching towards my kingdom. A greater host of savages has never been seen in the north, and I’ll not spend blood and sweat freeing us from lions, to surrender my people to rapists and cannibals. That is not our end, Luwin.” He decreed as he straightened up.

“What can you do then, Your Grace? Turn from the Ironborn and go north to battle?” Luwin asked trepidation in the twitch of his whiskered nose.

The auburn head was already shaking as Robb made for the door.

“No Maester. This possible conflict means that the north must be united even more than before, which means the Ironborn must be wiped out. But I must secure an end with the Lannisters as well, so my plan remains the same. Aid Lord Glover in driving out the krakens, and then return south, so I can get the rest of my men and bring them north to rout these savages before they can taste the clean northern air.”

The door closed behind him, and Robb leaned against it briefly, closing his eyes and letting his chin touch his chest.

_There seems to be no end to potential enemies on our borders, and I must have an answer for all of them. Is this what it felt like Father, or is the weight greater since we now stand alone?_

                                                                               

                                                                                ********

 

“Riders Your Grace!”  Marq Piper bellowed as he strode into the king’s tent dripping with rainwater. Robb and his lords turned to look upon the knight as he shook himself in a way that was almost doggish, but his brown eyes were cheerful beneath his clammy brow.

He easily stepped around the massive direwolf lounging by the flap and approached the king.

The camp they had established was well hidden and secure, but their Woodfoot scouts had to sacrifice measures of comfort for security. A well hidden basin was their location, which allowed them to approach the shores where the Greyjoys had come ashore stealthily, but water runoff was everywhere.

“How many Ser?” Was all Robb spared the knight as his eyes once again fell to the map spread over his table.

“Just two Sire and one of them is perhaps the third largest man I’ve ever seen.” He said with a smirk as he took a cup of wine from a squire who held it towards him. “Clearly, there be giants in these woods Your Grace.”

Robb frowned at his meaning, glaring at the man until behind him he saw the enormous figure towering over the heads of the guards outside the tent.

Smalljon Umber!” Robb roared as he charged towards the man, catching him by the forearm, fighting to keep the wince from his face at the returning squeeze.

“Forgive me Your Grace.” The giant warrior rumbled as he knelt on the damp rug before his king. “It was damnably hard to locate your camp in this buggering mist coming off the shore. Clear sky would’ve had me here three days past.”

Robb pulled him to his feet, affectionately pounding his brawny shoulder in the doing.

“But you did find us Smalljon.” He reassured the loyal heir. “And with good news I hope, for I can use such in these times.”

“Times are trying sire, but the old Gods have given us a boon this day.” Smalljon boasted, an outsized hand dwarfing the goblet that Ser Marq’s squire slid into his grasp.

Robb watched as he drained it and thrust it again at the squire, implying more before Robb stepped forward and put his hand over the cup, looking the Umber heir in the face intently.

“Tell me of how we’re blessed Jon, and then you can drink your fill, I promise.” He stated firmly, not blinking at the anger in his friends eyes.

“Arghh, always duty with you Starks!” He blustered for a moment, before his eyes twinkled and he grinned. “My king, the squids have fled Deepwood, and Galbart is like a wolf on their trail. They saw the numbers arrayed against them and set fire to the keep, hoping to make us choose between saving the castle or skinning their hides.” He laughed at that, as if there was any real choice to be made.

Robb agreed with him inwardly, at least.

“What about Lord Glover’s wife and children Umber?” Demanded Ser Marq who had a cloth wrapped around his neck as he wiped his face dry. “The man has been silent with worry since the riverlands. What news of them?” He ended as he threw his cloth into the open hand of his squire.

“It’s not the wife or children of Lord Glover Ser Marq, but of his brother Robett and he’s been quietly awaiting word here with me.” At that, Robb gestured to the tall lean northman, who stepped forward with eyes of stone.

_A good thing, for if there’s a bad report, better he hear it now with us, than be present and be able to do nothing about it. I’ve seen such tidings drive men mad._

“Master Robett, your wife and children are unharmed and resting at Ironrath with the Forresters.” Smalljon shared with an uncharacteristic gravity. The squids locked them into chambers in the rear of Deepwood Motte and lit it aflame, and took their chances fleeing in the confusion. The Woodfoot and Forrester men made to put out the fire, and your brother Galbart broke down the gates to gain entry. His men found them and he entrusted them to Lord Forrester, and took all the men who weren’t fighting the fire and gave chase to the squid bitch. He just sent me to tell the good news to you and the king.” He then put the refilled goblet to his lips and slowly drank deeply.

The tall grey northman didn’t weep but he did sag in relief, so heavily in fact that Robb placed a bracing hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze before he addressed the tent.

“Which way did they go Smalljon?” Robb demanded, the thought of taking Balon Greyjoy’s daughter making him impatient. “We’ve got their numbers several times over, between Lord Glover and myself. Help me cut them off.” His hand floated over the map even as his eyes narrowed.

Draining the cup and tossing it to the squire, Umber stretched over the table, his shadow darkening most of the map as he glared at the skin as if doing so would reveal their fleeing foe.

“Well sire, the shits hacked a hole in the keep close to the stables, and took the horses and fled to the west. Galbart was hot on their heels but the men and the horses are tired. And the squids are scared shitless, so doubtless they’ll be riding like the Others themselves are on their arses.” He grumbled somberly.

At the mention of the bedtime monsters, Robb’s eyes involuntarily skipped to the top of the aged skin, where a long unbroken line signified the Wall.

_We don’t have time to chase raiders through the woods, when a host of one hundred times their number threatens from the north._

“I know these woods milords. I grew up mapping every turn, ravine and smooth stone.” Came the weary voice of Robett Glover, who had evidently restored his strength and composure. “If they broke through at the stables, and rode west they’re headed straight into harsh terrain that even the Wolfswood shadowcats step lightly in. And the squids aren’t horsemen, as King Robb reminded us before. They’re slow and we’re not. We know these lands, and more importantly, comfortable in the saddle. We’re here currently and can easily keep to the mountains and cut them off before they can make Sea Dragon Point.” He leaned past Smalljon and slid his finger delicately from the marker representing them close to the Stony Shore and dragged it upwards towards the small dragon shaped geographical point.

Robb looked at the older man squarely, leaning in so as to whisper and not shame him.

“You have no wish to ride for Ironrath milord? We’ve plenty of Woodfoot scouts to show us the way; you need not come this portion with us.        None will think less of you.” Robb intoned lowly to the man, eyes fixed on his face.

The grey warrior was shaking his head resolutely, as he fingered the sword hilt at his side. “I thank you Your Grace but no. I’d rather be able to tell my lady wife that her tormentors are no longer breathing than explain that I left it to my king to avenge the honor of House Glover. My wife is a hardy woman and wouldn’t understand such action.” He smiled with a wistful fondness thick in his words.

Robb just raised his eyebrows and looked around the tent.

“Then we ride in a few hours. Prepare your men!” He ordered before briskly walking outside.

 

                                                                                                *******

 

It seemed to take forever to break down camp, and each minute that passed Robb feared that Asha Greyjoy would get closer and closer to the long ships she’d undoubtedly hidden somewhere.

_If I can take her now, I’d have a sword over the neck of Balon the old Fool Greyjoy. If I cannot, this raiding of my shores will continue. I will not have my men fighting both wildlings and Greyjoys for years to come._

When they did set out northward, Robb set the pace, and it was nearly grueling, pushing both horse and rider to nearly breaking, until they at last skirted the last of the mountains of the Stony Shore and could look on the placid grey waters of Sea Dragon Point.

 Robb slowed his horse, gently pulling the reins on the huge black dappled destrier as he raised himself in his stirrups to look for any signs of life.

_All these days of hard riding, and there’s nothing but grey sand and greyer waters to greet us. Could they have already made it and slipped out to sea?_

“Send for the master archer Smalljon.” Robb ordered curtly to the huge man at his right, gloved hand tight around the hilt of his sword. “His eyes might catch what escapes us.”

Smalljon turned his horse swiftly, the monstrous animal huffing in irritation at the motion as they made off.

“At once, Sire.” Was the familiar baritone of Robb’s fiercest warrior as he cantered back down the line.

“We’ll see if she slips away, won’t we boy?” Robb murmured to Grey Wind, the wolf now so large that his head could be patted while one was astride without even leaning down.

Normally the beast would’ve nipped or nuzzled his hand at the address, but the eyes of the wolf were fixed somewhere in the distance, something in the line of trees that were closest to the coast.

Robb saw nothing, but he’d seen enough of Grey Wind to know that if he’s fascinated by something, there more than likely value to it.

“You sent for me Sire?”  Robb paused in running his hand through the fur between Grey Wind’s ears and turned to look at the man standing a few feet back with the Smalljon.

Terrey, a blonde master archer of the Wolfswood had gained a measure of repute due to his flawless killing of Victarion Greyjoy weeks back. Now in a new jerkin with a finer set of gloves and a fresh wash, the man looked nearly wellborn as he stood expectantly behind his king.

“Tell me something man.” Robb began as he returned to scanning the view in front of him. “Do you see anything that looks amiss to you, as a man who hunted these lands all his life? Can your archer’s eyes locate our foes?” He asked softly.

It was a rustle and a sigh as the man stepped to Robb’s side, and slowly let his eyes drift over the landscape ahead.

“I see nothing I can call a foe Sire, but I do see things that aren’t as they should be. The fact that your pet hasn’t turned his head from the wood afore us tells me that there must be something more.” He uttered with a befuddled look on his plain face.

“He’s no pet man, but continue.” Was all Robb said in response, though he was frowning.

“Forgiveness Sire. But I’ve hunted these woods all my life, and washed my bloody hands in those very waters. At any given time, there are otters, seagulls, snow foxes and pelicans keeping the shore right noisey.” He scratched his chin then, peering at the bleak view. “Now though, something’s scared them off and left the place as silent as a grave. The same thing happened at the Moat, before those fucking squids attacked us. It can’t be us; we’re too far aways off here.”

 The king had the same thought as his archer, and sucked his teeth for it.

“Sire?” Came the worried query, probably fearful his report would see his king’s wrath upon his head.

“How many truly skilled archers do you count among our number Terrey?” Robb asked quietly, his hand resuming its patting of Grey Wind.

“I’d say a good two hundred Sire, especially with the new bows we were given at the castle.”

Nodding to himself, Robb turned and grabbed the man by the shoulder.

“Then I tell you to choose the best two hundred and prepare yourselves for further instructions, and be quick about it.” He sent him off with a pat on the shoulder, before gesturing the Smalljon closer.

“Jon, I need you to position the archers a little off that ridge there below us.” He had to lean towards the dark to obscure his target from any watching eyes. ”When I give the signal, I want two hundred flaming arrows landing on that tree line on the other side of the cove. Some near the edge close to the water, others deeper inwood. “

The huge man chanced a glance to the sole man occupying the darkness to the left of the king before striding off, and Robb remembered the silent noble who grew up seeing to these lands and people.

“Master Glover, I take it that there are no ironwood groves in this part of the wood? Or villages that we might chance setting aflame?” Robb asked, doubt in his voice.

“Nay sire.” Was the iron rasp of the brother of Lord Glover. “Any villages close to here would’ve been sacked first by the ironmen, the men killed and the women enslaved. And there are no ironwood trees this far from protective patrols. But I’d gladly watch them burn regardless if it puts the squid bitch in my hands. Fire away Your Grace.”

“Your counsel is appreciated Master Robett.”

The grey man just nodded, even as Robb turned and hailed a squire.

“Yes, Your Grace?” The skinny boy asked, flushed at talking to the king.

“Do you know who Ser Marq Piper is lad?” Robb asked, seeing Bran in the boy’s bashfulness.

“Yes Sire, he’s the short knight who’s always sharpening his sword.” The youth nodded eagerly. “Doesn’t trust his squire to do a good enough job of it, he tells us.”

“Fetch him for me lad, and quickly.” Robb ordered, eager to finish with these raiders.

The boy didn’t even bother with a bow before he shot off like a hare, leaving Master Robett to chuckle.

Ser Marq was fast, and was in the process of sheathing his well-honed blade as he walked to his king’s side.

Robb didn’t even greet him when he saw him, skipping the niceties and cutting to the matter of the moment.

“Ser Marq, I’d have you move half of our heavy horse back down the way we came, slowly until you reach the point where the seawater touches the horses hock. We rode past it earlier; it was the beginning of the flats. When we light those woods up, I expect to see squids to come boiling out the mud, angry and desperate. I need my fiercest there to meet them.”

The short man just gave a boyish smile and took a knee, planting a fist to the cold earth.

“It will be as you say Sire.”  Before he too jogged off.

It was a half an hour before the giant of House Umber came striding back, and the sun had lowered in the sky, leaving the northern host cloaked in dusk.

“At the ready, Sire.” Smalljon affirmed in a soft voice.

Robb looked at the trees in the distance, wishing to see a gleam of steel, a campfire, just some sign of life.

_If we’ve done all this positioning for nothing, I will look a right fool to my men. If I’m right though, blood will be spilled this night. I’d have it so if it means one less enemy in my path tomorrow. Let the old gods be good._

He slowly pulled his sword from the scabbard and tapped his shield, and Grey Wind howled low and lingering into the dusk, the sad sound rolling down the beach.

A scant second later, two hundred candlelight pinpricks crested the sky, only to fall deep into a leagues worth of trees, setting the dry wood ablaze.

 They waited there for several seconds, a ripe silence heavy in the night only broken by the sound of a hungry demon of orange and red, gorging itself on branch and bark.

 _This was a waste of days riding_ , Robb despaired. _The scum likely slipped past us days ago and are already well on their way back to their shitty islands._

He was about to turn and order the men to make for the sea to gather water in hopes of quenching the fire when a bloodcurdling scream of pure agony broke through the night.

It was cut off abruptly, ending in a wet gurgle but the damage was done.

Grey Wind snarled and snapped his jaws, Robb feeling the beast swell with intent under his hand.

“Archers!” He bellowed openly, letting the woods know their master was present. “Fire!”

It was another volley of fire, and now the whole forest in front of them was aflame.

They saw dark figures crouching at the edge, trying to keep the fire behind them but clearly afraid to abandon the dwindling safety of the trees and completely expose themselves to the northmen they knew were waiting.

Robb was caught between the desire for the blood of those who dared to invade the north with aspirations to conquer and the duty of a king to his men, to value their lives and not throw them away needlessly.

His moment of indecision was stolen from him by the sight of a huge reaver breaking from the safety of the trees and charging across the beach, an ugly great axe an extension of his brawny arms.

“For Nagga and the Grey King!” The man roared as he came, and it was as if his recklessly suicidal run was the call to arms, for the rest of the dark figures followed in his wake, near enough a thousand man strong wave of squids ready to die.

_And we shall oblige the shits._

 

End

 

 

The Hall of Harren Hoare

 

 

Tyrion

 

He hated the not knowing more than he hated anything else about their situation.

Tywin Lannister, Hand to two kings had fled Kings Landing in a disgrace, only five thousand of the original thirty five that he had amassed still left to him. Stannis Baratheon now sat the Iron throne, and Robb Stark was stronger than ever in the riverlands and north. King Joffrey Baratheon, the first of his name was now a king-in-exile, and his entire family with him. This was all known to what was left of his nephew’s twisted little court, as they sat in Harrenhal and waited.

Tyrion looked at the meager pile of rare books he’d managed to gather before their evacuation of the Red Keep and resisted the urge to sigh yet again.

_Two weeks here in this drafty edifice built of cruelty and ambition, and I’ve read each page several times over. There is little wine, I’ve lost Shae to the chaos of the city, and all we can do now is wait. I’m fucking tired of it. Let the Starks come howling, or send Stannis and his hordes. Make an end, ye cruel Gods. I’d happily watch another round of Varys twittering and LittleFinger jibes thrown at one another than hear my idiot sister and her insane son demand action when there is exactly only one thing that we can do now. Alas, they too have left us so all we can do is languish here and wait for more information._

Tyrion was debating picking up and reading the first tome of Lomas Longstrider, the famed Wonders Made by Man for the fourth time this week when he heard the soft, borderline hesitant knock on his door, followed by Podrick Payne’s soft tones coming through.

“Milord, your father has summoned you. He requests your presence immediately.”

_Of course he does. I resign myself to appreciating a good book, and HE decides I’m needed. Typical._

“Coming Pod!” Tyrion yelled before pushing himself away from the empty table and hopping down, cursing Aegon the Conqueror when he did so.

_He might as well have razed this great big monstrosity to the ground, rather than leaving it warped and bent with crooked stones. My knees would thank him for it._

He put on the customary dressings of Harrenhal, taking time to make sure it was securely tied in the back so as to not droop over his eyes.

_The gods wouldn’t be able to help themselves from laughing at a blind dwarf._

“All clear Podrick?” He asked the squire who wore the now standard thick gloves and a face covered in cloth.

“Aye milord. I think there’s been news of the realm.” He muttered, no head for politics had the squire.

Tyrion smiled briefly before putting the young man to a better use.

“Better news than the same old books Pod. Find Bronn too, if you please but stay vigilant. You hear a cough, you go the other way, understand?”

“At once milord.” Bowing and with a reassuring touch to his face covering, he walked off, his soft footsteps swallowed by the uneven tile.

As he walked down the halls of the vast castle, he could only be passing grateful that his father had seen fit to keep all their rooms in the same wing, eschewing rank and custom for the sake of safety.

_With our luck in such a bad way, who knows what ugliness could brew if left to chance._

He diligently kept his eyes forward, so as to avoid meeting the hardened gazes of the masked and gloved warriors who remained to them.  In a castle which suffered in an atmosphere as tense with the stress of certain violence and the fearful taint of a highly contagious sickness all around them, he didn’t think it made much sense to tempt one of these men at arms with his devil’s gaze of two shades.

_I might end up thrown from one of these melted towers, and merely be reported as missing. The Cough may have claimed at least three hundred of my father’s men, but I’ll be damned if I give Cersei the pleasure of such an ignoble end. Not yet at least._

 He winced every time he thought of it.

A plague of greyscale unleashed in the realm, and all from the putrid stew of malice and fear that brewed in the heart of one selfish woman.

_We’ve lost nearly all our allies, our Master of Coin and Whispers have all but abandoned us, though those two never were an ideal picture of staunch honor. The Grand Maester who fled with us has died, or rather been put out of his misery.  A shade over three thousand, where there was once thirty five. And yet the viciously moronic ones still live, inflicting their stupidity on the rest of us._

He barely acknowledged the two cloth layered guards outside the room his father had claimed for counsel purposes, just staring ahead as they opened the door with a muffled “Milord.”

Expecting to see the smoky chamber stuffed with western nobility, he was flabbergasted to see it devoid of life but for the tall thin form of his father, staring out the window with his hands clasped behind his back.

One long arm just waved in the general direction of the tableau, where he saw a several goblets and one gloriously full decanter waiting for him. Not caring if his father watched him or not, he waddled over whilst pulling his cloth away from his head, climbing the chair ponderously and settling himself before he reached for the closest cup and the decanter.

_These gloves make things chancey, but I’ll not waste a single drop on this table. My dignity wouldn’t survive my father glaring at me while I lapped wine off the table like one of Tommen’s cats._

“The Freys bring word.” His father, the once greatest lord in the seven kingdoms said tonelessly.

“Oh, did they?” Tyrion asked as he smacked his lips on the delicious arbor Gold he sipped on. “Did they also bring the wine, for if so, I hereby declare myself officially, a leal friend of House Frey.” He declared to the chilly room, knowing his father would hate his flippancy but these days were too dark to care.

Silence answered his japes, and the taste of the wine on his tongue soured a bit.

_This news must be more dour than expected._

“Robb Stark has ended House Bolton for crimes against the north, beheading Lord Roose and hanging his bastard son.” Tywin stated in a monotone, emotionless in front of the low light of the evening coming through his window position.

Tyrion just drank rather than say anything foolish.

_The boy has come a long way from when he was escorting Myrcella into the Great Hall at Winterfell. Who could’ve ever predicted that the winds of fate would ever turn so harshly against all?_

“In more news, both Sansa and Arya Stark have been recovered to Riverrun safely, as were the surviving prisoners taken in the battle of the Green Fork.” Tywin continued, hands clenching and unclenching behind his slim back.

By this point, the taste for the drink had left Tyrion, and he had to fight the urge to scream and throw the glass decanter against the stone walls.

His father’s listlessness made much more sense now.

_Jaime is lost to us permanently now. Without the pretty little Sansa Stark, we’ve nothing to stay Stark’s hand, and everything to answer for. My brother may have done things to be ashamed of, but he was the only one to be good to me, and this truly hurts._

Tyrion almost wanted to weep, but his brother wouldn’t have so he resisted the inclination.

“Maybe they’ll ransom him Father.” He offered plaintively; hope watering the smallest of seeds in his chest. “To rebuild the lands as devastated as the riverlands, will take more gold than I expect the Starks have on hand. A king’s ransom is what they’ll ask, but we can swallow the cost, assuredly.”

Tywin Lannister scoffed at that, but remained steadfast in his window gazing.

“If my brother cannot raise the men necessary in time and make it here before Stark does, we’ll have to pay a kingdom’s ransom Tyrion, well beyond that which was ever demanded before.” He challenged, a bit more life in his words now.

_How much can the boy expect though?_

It was like he heard his second son’s thoughts because he continued without skipping a beat.

“The ruling family of the westerlands is almost all here presently, trapped in a castle that has a deadly sickness inside the walls. We also have most of the westerlands nobility present, those that aren’t dead already. He will shatter us financially, because he can and also because he must.” His father bore out as if he was talking to a dullard.

Which he might have been, for Tyrion’s mind kept going back to his captured brother.

_Jaime would be worth it though. He’d pay it for me in a heartbeat._

“That’s if Uncle Kevan cannot raise the ten thousand men in time though Father.” Tyrion acknowledged hopefully. “For us, surely my uncle would move as if the seven hells were yawning beneath us.”

Tywin Lannister at last looked away from the window and pierced his present son with the gold flecked gaze that had constantly dissected him mercilessly throughout his life.

“Has that wine addled your senses? Have you forgotten what caused the Frey’s to come running to our aid in the first place?” He barked, derision evident in the twitch of his glorious golden whiskers.  “The roses have crept into the den of the direwolf. What good is the ten thousand Kevan MIGHT raise, combined with our three and the Frey’s three when the Tyrell’s can raise five times that in a week? My brother is doing his best Tyrion, but it won’t be enough to spare us this gutting.” His father admitted coldly, turning back to his window.

“Then what can we do Father?” He demanded, frustration making him reckless. “Throw ourselves on the mercy of Robb Stark? Offer to take the black and send our lovely queen to the Silent Sisters?”  His dander up, he decided he did have a taste for wine and drained the goblet, slamming it down hard enough that he bent the bottom.

“We prepare Tyrion. We prepare for the hard times ahead of us, and do what we can now to circumvent the worst pitfalls.” He stated softly, turning around to face the table, looming above his son.

“To that end, you will realize your dream. You will succeed me as the Lord of Casterly Rock.” He commanded, a watchful glint in his eyes as he looked upon his hated son.

Tyrion wished he hadn’t drained the cup, for his mouth was suddenly bone dry. He’d never felt so aware of his short, stunted legs and his plump, childlike hands.  

His first real thought was unbecoming of a man grown.

_But they will all laugh at me as I sit on the throne of the Rock. They’ll snort when I waddle up, chuckle when I climb the chair and guffaw when I have to hop down. He knows this, yet he does it anyways._

“But first, you’ll marry a maiden of House Frey.” He declared imperiously, his tone brooking no defiance. “That is what it will cost you now; a small price to pay, considering Robb Stark will come later.”

Tyrion bit his bottom lip, holding back curses and no’s.

“Not Robb Stark but Tyrion Lannister? I knew the Freys weren’t helping us out of the goodness of their hearts, but why settle for a great lord when you can have a king?” He asked evenly, his hand a fat fist around the stem of his goblet.

“Because Tommen is too young to betroth, and besides, I’m not Catelyn Tully to throw my best coin away.” He explained coolly, those hard eyes still on his son.

“But Joffrey is king, not Tommen, and he’s actually at the perfect age to be wedded.” Tyrion mused, seeing a picture forming but not wanting to commit to it, for fear that it might be snatched away. Instead he refilled his cup and raised it to his lips.

Tywin blew out a hard gust of air through his nose, once again setting his whiskers twitch.

“I suspect King Joffrey will not live to see Casterly Rock again. Robb Stark will have us over a barrel; the head of Lord Eddard’s killer will be one of many to roll I presume. And we have no choice but to give it to him.” He admitted baldly, even as sweat dappled his forehead. “It works in our favor all the same. Prince Tommen is a much better student of kingcraft, given the fact that he can actually listen. Joffrey might not look like Robert, but he’s as stubborn as his father all the same.”

At this Tyrion snorted, having been in the process of taking a deep pull. He sprayed it through his nose, setting his nostrils to burning and his lungs to squeezing.

“You laugh.” His father ground out, real fury making him look as a lion in his den as he leaned over his son. ”I take you into my confidence, sharing extremely important information with you, raising you to be my heir and you LAUGH!” He roared, the table creaking under his weight.

Tyrion waved his hands in front of his face, a plea for mercy as his face still stung.

_Jaime was lost to them, but his bitch of a sister wasn’t, so why protect her when Jaime wasn’t at risk anymore?_

“Forgive me father, it’s just that it’s the worst kept secret in the realm, and you who’s said to be the most cunning of men still believe it to be true. Robert Baratheon isn’t the father of Cersei’s children.”

He’d not often seen his father at a loss for words.

Aside from the time when Jaime joined the Kingsguard, and when Robb Stark outplayed them in this war’s beginning, his father was never shocked.

This rocked him.

He went from leaning over Tyrion to Tyrion being nose to nose with him, his feet stupidly dangling in the air as his father lifted him with one hand at the collar of his doublet and shook him the way Joffrey liked to do to his little brother’s kittens.

“You lie.” He hissed out, his eyes green slits in his face and his aquiline nose almost touching Tyrion’s. The ferocity of his words coated Tyrions countenance.

“YOU LIE!” He shouted as he threw his son back into the seat, so hard that it slid back a foot.

Tyrion coughed, as he straightened his clothing and wiped the spittle from his face.

“We’ve lost more than thirty thousand men Father, and I just think it’s time we own up to why. Because my siblings gave Robert Baratheon an extra set of horns for his helm and Jon Arryn, Stannis Baratheon and Eddard Stark found out. Look at the reputations of the men who opposed my lying shrew of a sister, and face what most of the realm has accepted.”

Tyrion slowly reached for the glass, watching his father for anymore violent urges, only to be saddened to see Lord Tywin looking older than he ever has.

“But why would they do such filth?” He asked no one in particular. “Joanna and I never raised them to be such……” He ended softly.

Tyrion coughed one last time and cleared his throat, bravely saying the words his father needed to hear.

“Because they grew up hearing that as Lannisters of Casterly Rock, none were their equal. Except perhaps for the dragons. And the only eligible one was married to one, and ran off with another.  A stag is a poor substitute for a Targaryen.” He confessed quietly.  “In my heart I know, Jaime at least truly loves Cersei. Cersei really just loves herself. Jaime was the closest thing she could get to fucking herself.” He said with a wince.

Each revelation was a blow, and Tyrion watched his father crawl into himself, until he found himself seated.

Tyrion took one of the untouched goblets and filled it and pushed it into his dazed father’s hand.

He didn’t drink it, but stared at it as if willing things to be as they should’ve been.

_He likely imagines Cersei with three children as she has, just black of hair and blue of eye rather than little Lannister copies. Such a picture would have us back in the Red Keep._

He finally drank, gulping audibly as he finished it.

“It explains the eldest one, at least.” Was all he offered for a moment before shaking his head and finding his feet.

“Who else knows?” He asked softly.

“Most of our enemies, I imagine. Probably some of the older servants at the Rock.” Tyrion offered. “The real fly in the pudding was the fact that two very reputable men died in extremely short succession, and then the letter that Stannis sent to the realm made it clear why.”

Tywin took slow shaky steps to the window which he opened, looking down at one of the many courtyards it was above, as the sounds of a castle drifted up.

He inhaled deeply, his shoulders rising with the effort before reclosing it.

“Do you think the men of the west know?” He asked, wanting a good answer but there was none to give.

“I think it depends of how they viewed the honor of men like Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn, as well as Stannis Baratheon.” He said with a shrug, pushing the empty goblet over the table.

A long, drawn out sigh was his response from his father, before he straightened his back and clasped his arms behind him. He turned and strode back to the table, back to his remaining son.

“This changes things significantly then. Listen to me.” He ordered as he snatched the cup from his son. “I will not see the Rock again, and neither will my twice over grandson. Robb Stark will kill Joffrey for his personal vengeance and me for the burning and butchery of the riverlands. His lords will demand it, and he’s the leverage to see it done. I’ve known this ever since we left the capitol and made my peace. But you as lord of the Rock must use every bit of wisdom and cunning you have to lead House Lannister.” He said, a finger pointing at his son. “But you will have to do so from a lesser ledge. Thanks to your siblings, House Lannister will be clothed in shame for a generation. And when Robb Stark kills me, the shield that has protected you all will die as well. But my Kevan is an able leader in his own right, and he will aid you, but not from Casterly Rock.” He declared as he looked at the map of the westerlands in the middle of the table.

 _Where is he going with this_ Tyrion wondered, still stuck trying to imagine a world without the great Tywin Lannister in it.

“Castamere is flooded right now, but the keep itself is still strong I suppose.” His father surmised as he peered at the map. “It will need to be drained, and perhaps even expanded upon but that is where Kevan will make his seat. His name will henceforth be Kevan Lancaster, Lord of Castamere. The west will give you a token fealty, but it will look to him in truth.” He raised his head to look at his son, and Tyrion nearly cursed as he saw his father threaten to smile at him.

“This will be the way of things, until the west is healthy and strong again, but when that time does come, Kevan WILL return the power to Casterly Rock. He will step back into your shadow. He’s loyal, my brother and wants only whats best for House Lannister.” Tywin ended as he dared Tyrion to gainsay him.

“What of his sons though Father? Who can say if they will be so loyal?” Tyrion asked politely, making every effort to seem reasonable though he wanted to smash his father in the face with the wine bottle.

“That will be a problem for the next lord of the Rock.” Tywin said with almost a smirk. “Now leave me, I’ve letters to write.” He dismissed him and turned back to his window, which Tyrion now realized faces the west.

He shuffled out, caught between joy and hate.

_He gives me the desire of my heart, but because I ruined his precious twins for him, he pisses on my dream and dares me not to eat it all the same._

_I will not mourn fucking Tywin Lannister._

End

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't say sorry enough.
> 
> But its here. Not my favorite nor my best but ehhhh


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